


dreaming dawn, dusk awoken

by twilighttown



Category: IDOLiSH7 (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Royalty, M/M, i promise riku and iori end up happy, rating will increase later too!, tags will continue to be added as the story progresses so as not to spoil anything
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-05-31 16:47:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 31,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15123701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twilighttown/pseuds/twilighttown
Summary: Being the personal guard to the crown prince of Träumerei comes with defending him from life-threatening magic wars, keeping his decade-old secrets, and several lifetimes' worth of exhaustion that Iori didnotsign up for when he agreed to this job.But hey. At least he's cute.





	1. prologue

Izumi Iori is seven years old and absolutely, positively, definitely _not_ lost.

The path from Iori’s bedroom to the library isn’t a long one, he _knows_ this, he’s been led back and forth several times between the two places. Even without Prince Tenn’s guidance, Iori is confident enough in his own quick learning to find the library on his own. He knows where it is, really, he just—he just took a detour is all, because _maybe_ he’d heard a kitten meowing from a different hall and _maybe_ he’d been curious to see it, so he had strayed from the usual path Tenn had shown him.

That doesn’t mean he’s lost! Even though he’s only been in Träumerei for two weeks—or more like, because he’s _already_ been in Träumerei for two weeks, Iori can navigate the palace all on his own. He’s more than capable enough after all, a brilliant young prince, as all his tutors have said about him. Despite its sheer vastness, Iori can maneuver his way around his temporary home just fine, thank you very much, and he is certainly, one-hundred percent—

—lost.

Iori huffs out a frustrated breath. Who is he kidding? The Träumerei royal palace is massive, with long, winding hallways and grand staircases that seem to lead him everywhere but where he wants to go, nothing like his parents’ simple castle back in Fontaine.

He’d like to think he has a good sense of direction, too, but the ivory walls seem to stretch on forever, the floral garlands strung all throughout the palace useless as a landmark. The laughing angels carved atop the columns appear to be mocking him, and truthfully, Iori can’t say he blames them. He’s almost certain he’s been wandering for hours, now, in one big loop. To make matters worse, the particular wing Iori is in is completely empty, void of voices, of footsteps, of everything. So not only is he lost, he’s also _alone_.

There are already tears of frustration welling up in his eyes. The thought of isolation makes them spill over without mercy.

Iori whimpers, a tiny, pathetic noise. He’s ashamed of himself for crying, face hot with both distress and guilt. He tries to wipe off the streaks with his palms, forceful, trembling. The tears just keep coming, though, and Iori collapses to the floor with a sob.

He’s just full-on wailing, now. There’s no one to hear him, anyway, so Iori buries his face in his hands and cries. He’s scared, he’s anxious—he’s all alone in a strange and unfamiliar land. His only friend in Träumerei is Prince Tenn, but he’s far away, accompanying his father, King of Träumerei, on business. His whole absence is the reason Iori had to go to the library on his own in the first place. His older brother is too busy for Iori to rely on him all the time, being the crown prince and all, between lessons and meetings and fear for his home country, rife with poverty and famine and _war_ on the horizon, fear for their parents, gods, their _parents_ —Iori cries harder at the thought of them. What he wouldn’t give to be back home with them in Fontaine, baking cakes with his father, his mother laughing gleefully as she swipes a fingerful of batter from the bowl. It feels like only yesterday he was clapping along with his mother as Mitsuki sang and danced for them, but it feels like years ago that his father burst into the room, grim, declaring that the Hawke Empire had attacked their southern border and Iori and Mitsuki needed to be relocated somewhere safe, _now_.

Iori cries and cries, remembering that frantic night, how fearful his mother’s face had been as she helped him into his coat, how his father’s patient, soothing voice had turned stone-hard, instructing the Izumi royal guard to take the two princes to Träumerei as fast as possible. And while their arrival had been more than welcoming with the king and queen immediately accepting them into their palace, the servants and guards and tutors all offering him comforting smiles, Tenn befriending both him and his brother as easily as he breathed, Iori couldn’t help but worry for his people in danger, his parents’ lives at risk.

He curls further into himself, bawling, and he feels the panic settling deep within his bones, in his gasping breaths and shaking body. What if the Empire wins? What if his parents don’t survive? Iori and Mitsuki might have arrived as princes but what if they’d be returning home as prince and _king?_ Iori’s crying so hard by now he’s almost choking on the tears, the weight of his entire situation crushing him with terror and blaring in his ears like sirens, like _screams—_

Iori doesn’t hear it at first. It’s a distant sound, just barely audible over the cacophony of his pounding heart. Gently, it rises above the chaos, louder, a lifeline, like a lighthouse in a tumultuous sea.

It’s a voice, a clear, _beautiful_ voice, resounding off the palace walls. Iori sniffles, feeling the anxiety loosen from his chest, and he raises his head to listen closer. The voice is like the sun, bright and cheerful and warm, warm, _warm._ Every note it sings releases a little more tension from Iori’s body, replacing it with relief. Iori sighs, content, and blinks away the last of his tears.

There are no words to the song, but the longer Iori listens, the clearer the message becomes— _come closer._

Iori rises to his feet, body significantly lighter now that he knows he’s not alone after all. He closes his eyes, tries to zero in on the voice and determine where it’s coming from. Down the next hall, he thinks. Or could it be from up these stairs? No, surely a voice couldn’t carry that far...could it? Iori frowns despite himself. As much as he concentrates on the voice, he’s still painfully unfamiliar with the layout of the palace. It’s safer to just stay put, and wait for someone to come to him. He’ll probably get even more lost, somehow, if he decides to follow the voice.

But he wants to.

Oh, does he want to.

As if in response to Iori’s conflict, the garland of flowers on the wall next to him begins to dance, blossoms opening and closing in time with the voice. He supposes he should be _some_ kind of freaked out, seeing as the flowers are _moving_ , but surprisingly, even to himself, he’s rather accepting of the development. He thinks, perhaps, his body has decided it has suffered enough for one day, so all Iori does is eye the garland warily, observing it bloom and retreat into buds. Curious, he touches it.

He lets out an exhale he didn’t know he’d been holding, a wave of calm washing over him, relaxing his stiff shoulders. At his fingers’ contact with the garland, the voice becomes—not louder, per say, but _sharper_ , refined. It’s as if Iori had been hearing its song muddled through water, and now he’s breached the surface chasing after it.

The voice is clearest when he arrives in front of a pair of white double doors, intricately carved with peonies and angel wings. Cautiously, he opens the door, peering through the crack to find the source of the voice.

Iori’s heart flutters, and all at once he understands every fairy tale romance he’s ever read.

Before him is a room entirely covered in floral garlands, strung up against the walls, spun around the furniture, some even dangling from the ceiling. There is a bed with plain white sheets against one wall, and a few unfamiliar, clinical-looking devices beside it. Opposite the bed is a small circular table with two matching chairs, a small pile of books sitting on top of it. At the center of it all is a boy who couldn’t be much older than him, dressed in a flowing white tunic, eyes closed and mouth open in song. His hair is blazing red, carefully braided and woven with flowers at the side. His whole figure is highlighted by the glow of golden light that spills from windows so wide they almost completely replace the wall. The boy makes for a picture straight out of a storybook, and Iori gasps in reverence.

Suddenly, the boy looks at him. Iori jumps back with a squeak, and the door shuts.

He takes a second to breathe. He hadn’t been prepared to find someone so radiant, so lovely, so—so beautiful. He furrows his brow, annoyed with himself. How could anyone whose voice sounded like _that_ be anything _but_ beautiful? He should have known. He wants to run away; there’s no way someone like him is worthy enough to be in the boy’s presence, stunning as he is.

Despite himself, Iori opens the door again.

This time, he meets the boy’s eyes, ruby-red, just like his hair. They hold each other’s gazes for a moment, and Iori tries his best to hold out against his heart racing in his chest.

The boy smiles then, eyes twinkling, and Iori comes _this_ close to running away for real.

“You found me!” the boy says, and _oh,_ even when he’s just speaking, his voice is heavenly. “I’m sorry if I scared you. You can come in, if you want.”

Iori must not move for a while, because the boy tilts his head ( _adorable,_ Iori thinks) and asks him, “Um. Excuse me?”

“What—oh! I, I’m sorry!” Iori says, startling. He enters the room, shutting the door quickly behind him. He maintains eye contact with the boy, but Iori can feel his cheeks heat up. “H-Hello.”

“Hi,” the boy says, still smiling. He gestures towards the table. “Come sit down?”

Iori nods, following the boy to the table. “I’m glad you made it here okay. I, um, I really hope I wasn’t being too nosy?” The boy rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. “It’s just, I heard you crying, and I didn’t want you to be sad, so I just…started singing. If that was meddlesome, I’m really sorry—”

“I-It wasn’t meddlesome!” Iori protests. The boy regards him with innocent eyes, surprised by the volume of his voice. Unable to match his stare, Iori looks away bashfully, glancing back at the boy every now and then to gauge a reaction. “It, uh. It was very—er, very much...appreciated. Thank you.”

He catches him glancing at Iori up and down. Iori straightens up. Not that he wants to impress him, nothing like that, just—the chair is uncomfortable. Yeah, that’s it.

“We haven’t met before, have we?”

“Oh—no, we haven’t,” Iori says, bowing his head slightly before reciting his practiced introduction. “My name is Izumi Iori, second prince of Fontaine. It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

The boy giggles, and Iori _would_ be offended, if his laugh didn’t sound like golden bells. _What a cute person,_ Iori thinks.

“You don’t have to speak to me so formally,” the boy says. “I think we’re about the same age, so just call me Riku, alright? And I’ll call you Iori.”

Iori splutters at this. “Just—just _Iori?”_ No title? He gapes at Riku, wondering what kind of status he must have to even _assume_ he could drop the title of _prince_ from Iori’s name—

“No good?” Riku asks. “Prince Iori?”

He hates it the moment it comes out of Riku’s mouth. He scrunches up his nose in distaste, and Riku laughs again. “You see?”

He nods. Iori is perfectly willing to go along with Riku’s unconventionality as long as he gets to listen to him laugh.

“You’re from Fontaine, right?” Riku says _from_ , as if Iori isn’t part of Fontaine’s _royal family_. He isn’t really sure what to make of Riku’s informality, but he doesn’t dislike it, that’s for sure. “What is it like, there?”

Iori brightens up at the mention of Fontaine, launching into a detailed narrative of the country he calls home.

His family’s kingdom is a humble one, not nearly as wealthy as Träumerei, but they’re perfectly happy that way. Fontaine takes pleasure in little happinesses: the strip of seaside just on the other side of the castle, the clovers that sprout from between the bricks in the road, the warm smell of bread baked by the king _himself_ wafting through the streets. Fontaine is an old and well-loved kingdom with a reputation for preferring the simpler side of life.

Above all else, the people of Fontaine are known for the hospitality they show towards travelers and their own countrymen alike, generous with their homes and their hearts. The royal Izumi family is no exception, opening their modest castle to the public for anyone to come and visit. Ever since he was born, Iori had been exposed to countless members of various classes and cultures who had come to the Izumi castle. To other children, the idea of a house full of strangers in and out all day every day might sound overwhelming, but Iori’s curious nature is always thrilled to have the chance to observe their visitors.

He’s always been a little too shy to actually talk to them, though, instead asking his older brother to give them his thoughts on his behalf. Not that he tells Riku that.

The reminder of his brother cheers him up even more, and he transitions into recalling his fondest memories with Mitsuki. He tells Riku about how Mitsuki was the one who taught him how to read, how he learned to sew just so he could fix Iori’s teddy bear. Even with his status as the crown prince, Mitsuki is the most modest and compassionate person in all the country—all the _world_ , probably. He’s the very image of Fontaine’s philosophy, and his engaging, enthusiastic demeanor earns him friends wherever he goes. It’s really no wonder, Iori thinks, his chest swelling with pride, that he is so attached to his brother.

Riku hums in interest and Iori blinks at the sound. He hadn’t heard from Riku in a while, he realizes. Iori is suddenly hyper-aware of how long he’d been talking, and if his face is half as red as he thinks it is, not even Riku’s eyes could compare.

Riku, thankfully, saves him from stewing in his own embarrassment. “So you have a big brother, too!”

A strange warmth spreads across Iori’s chest, now that he knows he has at least one thing in common with Riku, the human ray of sunshine. “What about your brother?” Iori asks, wanting more of that comforting feeling. “What is he like?”

Riku, impossibly, smiles even _brighter_. Iori makes a mental note to carry a sun veil with him as long as he’s in Träumerei, on the off chance he might see Riku. “My brother is an angel! He’s so smart—whenever I’m reading, I can always ask him about the words I don’t know, and he can answer me right away! And he’s so talented, too, he’s a wonderful singer, just like Mom. I’ve always admired him. We used to be inseparable.”

He touches the braid in his hair fondly, his features smoothing into something more wistful, less like the shining sun and more like a glowing candle. “He’s really busy these days, and I can’t exactly go see him myself, but he takes the time to come visit me whenever he can. And even when he can’t…”

Riku’s hand moves to the garland on the wall, catching a pale pink flower between his fingertips. The flower blooms eagerly, cuddling up to Riku’s touch. He runs his thumb over the petals, and graces the flower with a look of affection. “We’ll always be together.”

_How beautiful._

It isn’t until Riku blinks at him with wide eyes, a rosy tint to his cheeks, that he realizes he’d said that out loud.

Iori clears his throat hastily. “The flower, I mean. All the garlands are enchanted, aren’t they? The queen told me her son grew them, but I didn’t know she meant with magic. Prince Tenn is really amazing.”

“Oh—no, these are mine!” Riku says. “I didn’t mean to make so many, but they just kind of...happen, sometimes, when I use my magic. ”

Iori blinks, stunned, as Riku’s words fully register. “Wait. You can use _magic?_ ”

“ _Wha_ _–?!_ How rude! Just because my magic isn’t as good as Tenn-nii’s is doesn’t mean I can’t use it! You’re so uncute, Iori.”

Riku’s puffed up cheeks are adorable, of course, and Iori has some _words_ to say about the whole “uncute” comment, but he doesn’t have the mental capacity to react to either, a bit too focused on the fact that _he can what?_

“But—but, if you can use magic, wouldn’t that make you—”

“ _Prince Iori!!!”_

The door bursts open, and in flies a flurry of blond curls and pink frock, red in the face and panting. “P-Please excuse the intrusi— _ah!”_ She exclaims, flitting to Iori’s side. “There you are!!! The whole palace is worried sick, _where have you been_ , Prince Mitsuki has been looking all over for you _,_ he was so scared you’d been hurt—oh my gosh, you’re not hurt, are you?!” And then, when Iori doesn’t give her an answer, “You’re hurt. Oh, you’re hurt, oh no, oh, _no_ …” She whirls around, then, grabbing Riku’s forearm. “P-Please! Quickly, a healer—”

The girl’s eyes go even _wider_ , somehow, when she locks eyes with Riku. She squeaks and flinches away, and hurries to bow deeply before him. “ _Your highness,_ oh my goodness, I—I am, I am so very, _very_ , sorry, I d-didn’t realize this was your room, and, I—ohmigosh, I, _sorry_ …”

“It’s okay,” Riku softens his voice, as if he might scare her away should he speak too loudly (and from what Iori’s seen of her in the past minute, it seems very likely he might). “It’s alright, Tsumugi. Take a breath, okay? In,” Riku inhales, gesturing for her to follow. She stands up straight and breathes in, obliging. “And out.” The two exhale in sync, and while Tsumugi’s nervous energy doesn’t vanish completely, she _does_ appear to be more in control of herself. “Better?”

“Yes…” Tsumugi says, bowing her head. “Thank you, your highness.”

Riku laughs again, but it’s different, this time—gentler, more tender. “How many times have I told you to just use my name, silly?”

“Riku…-sama.”

“Riku.”

“Riku-sama—”

“ _Riku._ ”

“Riku- _san_ ,” Tsumugi insists.

“Mm. Better,” Riku hums, not _enthused,_ but accepting of the compromise.

(A twinge of jealousy tugs at Iori’s heart, listening to their easy banter.)

Tsumugi continues. “Riku-san, I’m sorry for intruding, but Prince Iori was missing from his history lesson. Since Prince Mitsuki didn’t know of any illness, we were...concerned. We’ve been looking for him for well over an hour now.”

Iori winces. He’d been gone for so long that he’d missed his lesson, and what, because he’d been lost? Oh, he’ll  _never_ hear the end of it from Mitsuki… He supposes he’ll have to face his brother’s lecture whether he likes it or not, though. Might as well be sooner rather than later.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Tsumugi,” Riku says. “I called him here to play. I didn’t know he still had lessons, so don’t let them scold him too harshly, alright?”

“Eh?” Tsumugi says, looking back and forth between the two boys. “I-I didn’t know you two were friends, Riku-san, Prince Iori.”

“Of course we are!” Riku says, reaching for Iori’s hand. Iori tries not to think about how warm it is, how smooth his skin, how his heart rate spikes when Riku’s fingers lace together with his. “We’re really good friends, right, Iori?”

Iori startles at the sound of his name, a little too absorbed in his pointed not-looking at Riku’s hand. “Oh—well, I was called here, so—”

“— _so,_ you see, everything’s okay!” Riku tugs on Iori’s arm, leading him stumbling towards Tsumugi. “I’ll let the staff and guards know that he’s safe, so could you take him back to Prince Mitsuki, please? If he’s anything like Tenn-nii, I don’t want to be the reason Iori gets scolded.”

“Eh? Ah, um, y-yes…” Tsumugi says, words seeming to fail her. “Um, Prince Iori, shall we?”

“Right,” Iori nods. Riku walks him and Tsumugi to the doorway, where Iori turns to him and lowers his voice. “You didn’t have to do that. I’m still going to get in trouble, anyhow.”

Riku tilts his head again. “What do you mean? It was just the truth, you know.”

“Except for that part about us being good friends,” Iori murmurs. He looks away from Riku’s doe-eyed stare. For someone he’d only just met, Iori is surprisingly downcast at their parting (and still shocked over Riku’s status as a _noble_ , gods above, Iori will need to process that one later).

He feels Riku’s hands clasp around his, then, gazing at him with eyes so honest and a smile so genuine Iori feels warm all over, as if he’s stepped into the sun. “Then we’ll make it true.”

Iori’s heart skips a beat.

He has a feeling he’s going to need to get used to that, as long as Riku’s around.

 

 

Iori gets that lecture from Mitsuki, just like he expects. Mitsuki is irritated and exhausted the whole time, but at the end of his tirade he pulls Iori in for a long hug, relieved that his brother is safe and sound. Mitsuki asks him where he’d been, and Iori suffers through the embarrassing explanation of how he’d gotten lost and Riku had found him, recounting everything from using his song to lead Iori to Riku, to the way he needlessly claimed responsibility for Iori’s absence.

Iori, maybe, is a little too eager to stress the beauty of Riku’s voice. Mitsuki teases him _relentlessly_ for it, and Iori stammers that he only thinks of Riku as a friend, _Niichan, please!_

And they _do_ become friends, true to Riku’s words, and very close ones, at that. Iori runs off to Riku’s room whenever he has free time, even if it’s just a few short minutes while he’s on his way to his next lesson. Riku looks positively _delighted_ whenever he opens the door to Iori’s characteristic double knock, and when he looks at him with a face like _that_ , who can blame Iori for always coming back for more? He enjoys Riku’s presence, whether they’re playing together or swapping stories or simply just existing in the same space together, that much is obvious.

As for the less obvious things concerning Riku, well, he learns them as they go along. There are three pieces of information in particular that stand out.

The first is that Iori’s suspicions are correct—Riku is noble-born. He expected as much, what with the ability to use magic, and Tsumugi stuttering over royal addresses and honorifics.

What he _didn’t_ expect was for Riku to be _Nanase_ Riku, second-born son of the Nanase royal family, Tenn’s beloved twin brother, and _prince_ of Träumerei.

“It’s not really important,” Riku says one day. Self-conscious, he fiddles with the stud in his ear, a seven-petaled flower, the Nanase royal crest. _Starflower,_ his brain supplies. _Fitting._

Iori frowns. “It _is_ important. I’m a guest in _your_ country, your highness—”

“Riku.”

“—not to mention, I’m _younger_ than you, so I should be showing respect.”

Riku grumbles. “Says who?”

“Says—says _everyone!”_

“Not me,” Riku rests his chin on his hands, pouting at Iori from across the table. “What if I _want_ you to use my name?”

Iori just gapes at him, unable to respond. “But—but, you— _you’re a prince!”_

“So are you!”

“Well— _yes_ , I suppose, but— _ugh,_ ” Iori groans. How could he have ever found such a—a stubborn, unprofessional person like Riku _cute?_ “Fine. You win.”

Surprised, Riku blinks at him. “Really?”

“Yes. I’ll use your name,” Iori says, quietly. “...Nanase-san.”

“Wh— _Iori!!!”_

 _Ah,_ Iori thinks, laughing as Riku reaches across the table to pinch his cheek. _That’s how._

The second thing is that no one, not even Riku knows exactly what kind of magic he has. Iori scours all the books on magic he can get his hands on, probes his brother with questions about the magic of previous visitors to the Izumi castle, but no matter how hard he searches, he doesn’t understand Riku’s magic at all.

He can’t use the earth and its minerals for creation, but flowers sprout at his feet when he sings. Iori’s magic sigils and emblems remain unresponsive to his will, but he has no problems making the illustration of a princess in a picture book dance across the page. Riku is certain that he can’t use spells to charm people, either, like Tenn can, but with the way Iori’s emotions run rampant whenever they end up within three feet of each other, he’s starting to doubt that, too.

The only thing that Riku knows for sure is that his magic is, for lack of a better word, wild. If he’s not careful, it takes a life of its own, stretching its power far beyond Riku’s reach. Fortunately, it’s benevolent, the worst it’s ever done being the spread of the floral garlands, but Riku remains on guard, just in case.

The third, and possibly most important thing, is that Riku is strong.

Not in the physical sense—Iori had seen the machines, had endured the days he was turned away at the door by the stony-faced healers in their white cloaks. It isn’t unusual for Riku to ask Iori if they could just sit down at the table for a while, and on worse days, he won’t even be able to get up from the bed. Riku’s body is, in every sense of the word, fragile.

But despite his illness, or perhaps _because_ of it, Riku’s heart never wavers. He suffers through countless attacks and treatments and spends days on end alone and in pain, but he never falters. Without fail, he always greets Iori with a brilliant smile, never mind the pallor of his skin and the darkness around his eyes.

Tenn leaves with Mitsuki for a political summit in Fontaine, and Riku bids them farewell with tight hugs and best wishes. He doesn’t complain about the palace being so uncannily quiet, or how his dear twin brother is so far away. He waits patiently in room, writing letters for Tenn, and invites Iori to write one for Mitsuki, too.

Iori has nightmares while they’re gone, torturous visions of his parents and brother and country, all aflame. They sink terror deep into his thrashing limbs, clinging to the backs of his eyelids even when he wakes. He feels awful for waking Riku up in the middle of the night, but Riku welcomes him into his room every time. He sits with Iori at the table and listens to him talk, comforts him with promises of _“I’m here, it’s okay, I’ve got you,”_ all night long. When Iori wakes the next morning, bent over the table, he finds he has been wrapped in Riku’s favorite blanket and given the softest pillow, the boy in question sleeping soundly on the floor with his head leaned against Iori’s thigh.

(If Iori runs a hand through Riku’s hair while he’s asleep, and continues to do so when Riku cuddles up towards his touch, well, Riku doesn’t have to know.)

After a week, and Tenn and Mitsuki return bearing the miraculous news of the Hawke Empire withdrawing its forces from Fontaine. The moment Mitsuki steps off the carriage, he sprints towards his little brother and tackles him in a hug so tight Iori can barely breathe, but finds that he doesn’t mind all that much when Mitsuki is telling him “We can go home,” over and over through tears of joy.

But for all the relief that washes over Iori when Mitsuki plans for their departure, a small part of him is reluctant to go. Leaving Träumerei means leaving Riku, and after everything Riku has done for Iori, the idea of being apart from him just feels...wrong. Being at Riku’s side has become Iori’s home away from home; it’d be like losing an arm to live without him.

And what would Riku think? Would he miss him? Would he be lonely? Iori’s heart aches, thinking of how his cherished friend would react to the news.

Riku wouldn’t... _cry_ , would he?

The thought of it is enough to solidify the anxiety pooling in his stomach. Ignoring the sudden weight, Iori decides to spend the day packing instead. He can always tell Riku later that evening, once he figures out how to say goodbye.

 

 

Iori doesn’t go see Riku. The day passes.

So does the next.

And the next.

And the next.

 

 

Iori stands outside Riku’s door, more apprehensive than ever. A carriage outside is being loaded with his and his brother’s belongings at that very moment, and Iori knows that he needs to make this as quick as possible; the carriage leaves at sundown. _This is it,_ he thinks, fingers jittering. His knuckles are poised to knock, and he _will,_ any second now, he’s just—he’s just waiting for the right moment.

He sighs. Gods, he can’t even fool himself with that flimsy lie. He’s just a wimp and he knows it, a dirty coward who can’t gather the courage tell his best friend goodbye, not even minutes before he knows he’ll be gone. He drops his head with a _thunk_ on the door, willing himself to _suck it up, already_.

“Iori?” Riku says, muffled behind the door.

Iori startles at the sound of his voice, jumping back. “Y-Yes?”

“...Aren’t you going to come in?”

Well. Shoot _._ No going back now that he’s been caught.

He slowly pushes open the door, steeling himself for the scolding he knows he deserves, but it never comes. Instead, Riku welcomes him in, cheerful as ever, like Iori hasn’t been avoiding him at all.

“Hi, Iori,” He says, patting the empty space on the bed next to him.

“Hello, Nanase-san,” He hops up to sit, noticing a small bundle of flowers on the sheets. “What are you doing?”

Riku grins at him as he holds up a half-finished wreath of flowers. “It’s for you! A goodbye present,” he says. “I’m sorry it’s not done yet, but I didn’t know today was the day until a few hours ago.”

“Ah...yes, I leave today,” Iori says, staring at his dangling feet. “Are you angry?”

“What, that my best friend suddenly stopped visiting for four days in a row and I only heard that he was going back home soon from my brother?”

Iori winces. Alright. He deserved that.

Riku chuckles. “I’m kidding. You should see the look on your face, Iori!” He carefully tucks a flower stem into the weave held together with his fingers. “I’m not angry. But I wish you would have told me."

They sit there, just occupying the same space together for a moment. Riku hums softly as he adds blossoms to the floral wreath, and every time he leans over to take another flower, Iori wants to take Riku’s hand in his and intertwine their fingers.

“...I’m sorry,” Iori says, after a long while. “I wanted to. When I heard, I knew I had to tell you that I was leaving, but…” he trails off, gripping the hem of his shirt so tightly that his knuckles turn pale. “I...didn’t want to see you sad. I’m really sorry.”

Riku is silent, and Iori’s heart drops. He knew it, Riku is mad at him. Of course he is, Iori had been avoiding him for days. He’s going to get that scolding after all—or, worse, maybe Riku really _will_ cry, and then what will Iori do? Iori feels tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, why won’t Riku _say_ anything—

“Hey,” Riku says. “Come here?”

“Huh—a-ah...okay.”

Riku scoots over towards the edge of the bed, and Iori crawls across the bed to sit next to him. He quickly wipes away the tears while Riku moves, hoping he doesn’t notice.

“Close your eyes,” Riku says.

Iori swallows, his heart pounding in his chest, but squeezes his eyes shut, anyway. “Nanase-san?”

He can feel Riku’s fingers on his cheek, feather-light and incredibly soft, gently pushing his hair out of the way. Something settles around the crown of his head—Riku’s hands, maybe? His breath hitches when he thinks he feels a butterfly kiss brush against his skin. Iori’s pulse is going wild—what is he doing? Riku is _so close_ to him, what on earth could he—could he be trying to—? No, no, of course not...unless, _maybe?_

“Iori,” Riku whispers, and _oh,_ maybe Iori is right, maybe Riku really _is_ trying to—

“You can open your eyes now.”

Iori does. Riku is only a hair’s width away from him, staring at him with those sparkling red eyes.

Of course, because he’s Iori, he squeaks and backs away. “ _Why_ are you—what are you doing?!”

Riku beams. “It does suit you, I knew it!”

Iori throws him a _look_ , puzzled, until he notices that Riku’s hands are suspiciously empty. He reaches up for his head, and feels the shape of a flower in his hair. He twists to face the window, stretching to see his reflection.

Atop his head sits the wreath Riku had been crafting, blue and white flowers delicately woven into a circlet that fits snugly around his head. Riku had chosen his flowers well; they’re little enough so they don’t look awkward on Iori’s head, satiny petals light colors that nicely complement his dark hair.

He turns back to Riku, who’s still proudly grinning. “You made this? For me?”

“Well, yeah,” Riku says. “I told you, it’s your goodbye present. They’re my magic flowers, too, so they won’t wilt, even by the time you get home.”

Tears spring up again in Iori’s eyes, but he can’t bring himself to wipe these ones away, his heart overflowing with tenderness and joy and another, more persistent feeling that Iori doesn’t know how to name. Whatever it is, it’s warm, a glow that lights him up at his very core. It reminds him of the sun. Of Riku.

Riku’s gaze falls lower, and he hesitantly places his hand over Iori’s. “I’m glad I got to meet you, Iori.”

For all his “gifted” intellect, Iori doesn’t have the faintest idea what it is that causes him to lean that extra distance forward. The knowledge that they’ll be apart for a long, long time, perhaps. Or maybe just how Riku looks, the light of the sunset caressing his features, catching on his hair. Fragile. Precious. A treasure that Iori wants to protect, no matter what. Riku’s lips are irresistibly soft and just as warm as the rest of him, and Iori finds that the mysterious feeling in his chest flutters in delight as they kiss, sugar-sweet and magical.

Iori is the first to pull away, but as he does, he can’t help his gaze from drifting back to Riku’s lips. One more kiss wouldn’t hurt, would it? He leans back in, seeking that wonderful feeling again—

“Iori!” Mitsuki’s voice echoes from the hallway. “It’s time to go!”

Iori pulls back once more, this time with an undignified noise that makes him flush bright red, Riku giggling at the spectacle. “I guess it’s time.”

“R-Right,” Iori stammers, smoothing his clothes down and readjusting the wreath as he slides off the bed.

“Thank you,” Riku says, as Iori stands in the doorway. “For the goodbye kiss.”

 _Goodbye_. Iori swallows; the word has much more weight when said out loud. It settles uncomfortably in his chest, and Iori frowns. _No_ , he thinks. _That can’t be right._

“Not goodbye, Nanase-san,” Iori says. “Just until next time.”

Riku’s features light up, the corners of his eyes crinkling into a hopeful smile. “Really? You promise?”

“Of course. I promise.”

He laughs, then, and it sounds just as melodious as it did when Iori first heard it. “Don’t keep me waiting. May we meet again, Prince Iori of Fontaine.”

Iori can’t help it; he smiles back at Riku, hoping that he reflects even a fraction of the warmth Riku makes him feel. “May we meet again.”

By the time Iori reaches the carriage, Mitsuki is already waiting inside. He throws his little brother a curious expression when he spots the crown of flowers on his head, but he doesn’t ask questions, and Iori is grateful. A small, selfish part of him wants to keep his farewell to Riku a secret, something just between him, Riku, and the setting sun.

He doesn’t know how long it will be until they see each other again. Perhaps they’ll already be adults by that time, tried by adversity, hardened at their softer spots. The world may already have tried to break them, possibly and quite probably many, many times, but Iori isn’t scared. He knows, no matter what happens, Riku will be alright. Riku is _strong_.

For him, Iori will be strong, too.

  


But a person’s strength can only get them so far, and a world at war cannot be quieted by two voices alone.

Mere days after the Izumi brothers return to Fontaine, the Hawke Empire strikes Träumerei, and the Nanase family vanishes without a trace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello!!! welcome to the ioriku fantasy/royalty/marchen dream au
> 
> if it wasnt evident by my microsummary in the line above ive got so much in store for this fic. please stay along for the ride!


	2. Chapter 2

“You called for me, Niisan?”

Iori steps inside the library, careful not to let the heavy double doors behind him slam closed. Mitsuki is hunched over one of the desks, mouth twisted in concentration. He makes no move to acknowledge Iori’s presence, so Iori approaches him quietly.

“Niisan?” He tries again, from beside Mitsuki.

Mitsuki practically flies out of his chair, scattering a few papers in the process. “Gods, _Iori!_ Don’t scare me like that!”

He tries to glare at Iori, but really only ends up pouting. Iori bites the inside of his cheek to refrain from smiling. _Cute._ “My apologies, Niisan. Did you need me for something?”

“Ah, yeah,” Mitsuki says, dropping back into his chair. He sighs, gathering some of the papers on the desk. “Take a look at these, would you?”

Iori takes the stack from his brother’s hand and skims over the sheets. They’re reports on Fontaine’s state of affairs, all departments of which appear to be in excellent conditions. The harvest this year is plentiful, and so is the trade, both within the country and between those outside. Furthermore, thanks to the destruction wrought upon Fontaine’s southern border, their workforce is busier than ever, repairing the damages and building up troops for defense.

A sort of smugness wells up in him, and he stands up a little straighter with pride. He knew his ideas would work.

“We’re thriving,” Iori says. “It’s hard to believe how far we’ve come since the attack.”

Mitsuki hums in agreement, but the frown doesn’t leave his face. Iori eyes him curiously. “Is there a problem, Niisan?”

“There is,” Mitsuki says. “Have you heard anything about the Hawke Empire lately?”

Iori ponders this for a second, racking his brain for any information on their recent activity. Alarms sound in his head immediately once he realizes that, for all the Empire’s infamous lust for blood and war, he _has_ none.

“...I haven’t, no.” He says, in a voice that betrays far more suspicion than he’d like. He clears his throat, trying to correct it. “But, I wouldn’t be so concerned. Our military forces may be new, but they are by no means weak. And we’re well in touch with the other countries, too. I’m certain, if the Empire plans to attack us again, I will hear of it and execute every necessary countermeasure before the news even reaches your ears, Niisan.”

“I don’t have any doubt in your skills, Mr. ‘Tactician Prince.’ I wouldn’t have sent for you if I did,” Mitsuki says, smirking when Iori’s cheeks turn pink at the nickname. “But it’s not us I’m worried about. It’s Träumerei.”

Ah.

It’s been a long time since he’d heard ‘Hawke’ and ‘Träumerei’ in the same conversation.

“Träumerei?” Iori echoes back, toneless.

“Specifically, the new royal family,” Mitsuki continues. “You’ve got the rest of us, the Osakas, the Yaotomes, the Orikasas, hell, even we of the Izumi line have been sitting on our thrones for longer than even the history books remember. But the Takanashis, they haven’t even been in power for a decade, yet.”

“In other words,” Iori says. “While the other royal lineages have had centuries upon centuries to build our alliances with each other, the Takanashi’s haven’t had that chance. They don’t _have_ any alliances, especially since they are so new to the throne that no one knows what kind of political assets they carry, nor what burdens they bear. Träumerei is,” Distantly, Iori recalls a boy like sunset, writing letters in a silent room with only flowers for company. “...isolated.”

“Right. So, there’s a new royal family that no one can trust, struggling like a newborn fawn to form alliances with the older families. They’re the perfect target for an attack, and yet, the Hawke Empire is sitting on its _ass_ ,” Mitsuki turns to Iori, frustration evident in the crease of his brow. “Are you seeing what I’m getting at here?”

Iori nods. “What do you propose we do, then, Niisan?”

Mitsuki holds his brother’s expectant gaze for only a second before he lets out a heavy, ragged exhale. “I don’t have a single clue. That’s why I called you here, Iori. You’ve always been better at strategizing these political things than I have. Can you make any sense of it all?”

Iori’s mind whirs, analyzing each clue, building the bigger picture.

Before the upheaval of its royal family, Träumerei was an old and powerful kingdom. Its nobility had possessed magical prowess far greater than even the finest of any other kingdom’s royalty, able to weave spells bordering on the miraculous. Since the Takanashis had to be related to the old royal line in _some_ way or another to assume the throne, Iori can be fairly certain that this boundless magical energy made its way into the hands of the current ruler, too. And at the head of the country, that magic could be weaponized to turn the monarch into a fine general, too.

Which leads Iori to the matter of Träumerei’s troops. From his childhood memories, he knows that there had been plenty of guards before, patrolling the grounds with polished silver armor and satiny red cloaks. But while they were warriors, they weren’t soldiers—they were permanently stationed at the royal family’s side. If, and _when_ the Hawke Empire decides to invade, will there be troops available to stop the attack before it reaches the capital? The Imperial forces are ruthless, and their sheer number of personnel is more than enough to overtake even the most prodigious of Träumerei magicians. Without adequate defenses, the Hawke Empire would make its way past their borders without even breaking a sweat.

 _Gods know they have before,_ Iori thinks bitterly.

Even if Träumerei had a military of its own, they’d need the support from other countries—but, like Mitsuki had said, no other country is willing. The Takanashis’ magic may be powerful, but would they be willing to use it to defend the countries who actually bordered the Empire, constantly on the brink of war? With no history to speak of, an alliance with the Takanashis is just too risky for any royal family. Any country who dared even _think_ about signing one would be known throughout the land for being either incredibly desperate, or—

Or incredibly charitable.

As Fontaine is so reputed to be.

“We take the first steps towards an alliance with Träumerei,” Iori says, the pieces clicking into place. “We’ve got the perfect opening—no one else will support them, so, as is our reputation, we extend an olive branch. This is wonderful, Niisan! Think of what this opportunity means for Fontaine’s future!”

Mitsuki gives him a long look. Then he flicks Iori smack between his eyebrows.

“ _Ouch!_ What on earth was _that_ for?”

“You’re so _cold_ ,” Mitsuki says. “Aren’t you only supposed to be seventeen? Where did my clingy crybaby brother go, always following me around, calling me _Niichan, Niichan?”_ He scowls. “I want to help Träumerei because they _need_ it, not for our own benefit. After all, they housed us for so many months, way back when. It’s really the least we could do, after...” Mitsuki trails off, dropping his gaze.

“After the death of the Nanase family,” Iori says. He doesn’t even flinch when Mitsuki throws him an apprehensive glance.

Maybe he would have, before. When he’d first heard that imperial agents had somehow infiltrated the Träumerei royal palace and the king and queen were nowhere to be found. When the west wing of the palace had gone up in flames, taking the two princes’ bedrooms with it, leaving no bodies for the guards to find. When he’d holed himself up in his room for days, weeks, months on end, clutching a wreath of flowers to his heaving chest and begging his heart to _stop, stop hurting._

Even now, he runs his finger over the blue and white boutonnière that he always keeps pinned to his chest, the last remains of a crown that had unraveled years ago.

He knows Mitsuki is just looking out for him, when he gives Iori that searching stare. Being brothers, it was only natural for Mitsuki to be concerned when his honest, affectionate little brother locked his heart away. Even more so when locking it didn’t stop the tears from flowing, and Iori had no choice but to freeze it instead. But Mitsuki doesn’t really have any reason to worry, Iori thinks. Not anymore.

At seventeen years old, ten years after Riku’s death, Iori doesn’t feel a thing.

“Of course, we’ll be offering alliance as old friends of Träumerei, first and foremost,” Iori says calmly, perching on a clear corner of the desk. “The boost to Fontaine’s reputation is merely a bonus.”

Mitsuki eyes him skeptically, but ultimately lets his gaze soften, sighing. “Go on.”

“We send a letter to the King, telling him that, as some of the oldest friends of Träumerei’s previous dynasty, we want to extend our companionship to the new family, as well,” Iori says. “Obviously, we can’t send a whole fleet of soldiers, since they _are_ a new family, and our own company isn’t so large. Instead, we can send a small squadron for now, and have the most skilled of them act as ‘captain’ and join the royal guard, to gather information.”

Mitsuki nods. “I see. That way, we can know firsthand what the Takanashi family is like. If they’re worth the risk,” He rests his chin on his hand. “The Takanashi family has been floundering without allies for years. We’ll need to send them one of our finest squadrons, if we want them to take our gesture seriously.”

“Right,” Iori says. “We should refrain from picking from our own royal guard, as we need them here. But the higher ranked, the better.”

“And the ‘captain’ you mentioned...they’ll need a reputation of their own.”

“Someone well-respected, even outside Fontaine. Someone who the Takanashi family can put enough faith in to accept them as part of their crownsguard.”

Mitsuki smiles. “Someone with close ties to the Izumi family, so direct and routine correspondence isn’t seen as out of place.”

Iori finds himself smiling back, a little thrilled that his elder brother seems so approving of the plan. “Someone tactful enough to act cordially and avoid revealing our suspicions, but observant enough to read past any pretenses and truly judge the Takanashi family’s character.”

“Someone like _you,_ Iori.”

_What._

_“What?!”_ Iori sputters, nearly knocking every document off the desk in his shock. “No, Niisan, I—it can’t be me!”

Mitsuki reacts quickly, catching the papers before they can slip off the edge. “And why not? You’re the perfect candidate. The whole world knows about your intelligence, Iori—even our own tactician seeks your input. You’re not the ‘tactician prince’ for no reason, you know.”

“But, that’s—that’s exactly it! I’m a _prince!”_ Iori says.

“Ah-ah,” Mitsuki waves a finger. “That just proves my point. You’re an Izumi prince, and my precious baby brother. No one will even bat an eye when you ask for a letter to be delivered to the royal family.”

“But, but, Fontaine _needs_ me,” Iori stammers, feeling more flustered by the second.

Mitsuki narrows his eyes at Iori. “Are you saying your older brother isn’t a competent enough crown prince to oversee his country by himself?”

“Eh— _no,_ of course not, Niisan, I—I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to imply that, but—I, I just—!”

“Oh, loosen up,” Mitsuki claps Iori on the back, to which he lets out a surprised yelp. “I’m only joking. You’ve always made it clear that you respect me. It’s kinda embarrassing, honest.”

Iori breathes a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank goodness…you really scared me there, Niisan.”

“I was serious about sending you to Träumerei, though.”

Iori groans.

“Don’t be like that, Iori,” Mitsuki says. “Think about it. You’re the smartest person in this whole castle—hell, probably even the whole country. Your emblem magic and swordsmanship are both first-rate; you’re an excellent fighter. And you’re a _prince;_ you’ve got legitimate reason for direct contact with me, and with your status, they’ll know we mean business. There’s no one else better for the job than you.”

“But— _but,”_ Iori says, in a last-ditch attempt to talk his way out of it. When no words come, he just sighs. “Alright. I’ll do it. I’ll have you know I’m not very happy about it, but...” An image of a boy surrounded by golden sunset tugs at his focus. “You make a strong case, Niisan.”

Mitsuki smiles apologetically at him, resting a comforting hand on Iori’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. If I had the choice, I wouldn’t separate from you for one second, let alone the months it might take to gather all the information we need. You’re my one and only little brother.”

Iori relaxes against Mitsuki’s palm, closing his eyes to try and memorize the feeling of his older brother’s warm, protective hand. If he’s going to be away from home again for several months, well, then he sees no shame in acting like the spoiled youngest son while he still can. “I don’t want to go back.”

“I know, Iori. Believe me, I know,” Mitsuki whispers, wrapping Iori in a tight hug. “But what choice do we have?”

Then, when Iori hiccups, nuzzling his nose firmly against Mitsuki’s shoulder, “Besides, Träumerei could be good for you. You might finally get some closure.”

Iori just sniffles. Mitsuki rubs one hand in soothing circles on Iori’s back, the other rhythmically stroking his little brother’s hair. _It’s okay_ , says a voice from Iori’s memory, _I’m here. I’ve got you._

Iori hadn’t known he still had tears to shed for the loss of his first love until he realized he could no longer remember Riku’s face.

 

“Ah, Träumerei,” Yamato says, flopping onto his companion’s lap, lying down on the seat of the carriage. “The ‘Kingdom of Dreams.’ Rightfully named, you know. I made the best mistakes of my life over there.”

Nagi laughs brightly, nearly bouncing Yamato off his thighs. “Yes, I know what you mean! There is just something about it that makes you feel as if you are flying! The landscape is gorgeous, the festivals, gorgeous, and the women—” here he sighs dreamily, for dramatic effect, “— _gorgeous.”_

“To say nothing of the _men,_ good gods. And the _booze,_ ” Yamato kisses his fingertips with a loud _mwah!_ sound. _“Mucho fantastique.”_

“Those _cannot_ be real words,” Iori mutters under his breath, sitting across the carriage from the lively pair.

Yamato stretches his hand across the carriage to pat Iori’s knee. “Now, now, Ichi, no need to flip your pancakes. What, never had any good, old-fashioned Träumerei rum before? I’ve got some in a flask in my bag right now, if you’re curious,” he says, patting the worn leather satchel at Nagi’s feet. “Have some if you like. Oniisan won’t tell.”

Iori directs his most disapproving stare towards him, until Yamato shrugs and fishes around in the bag for the flask himself. “Your loss.”

“Whatever my Niisan was thinking when he asked you two to escort me to Träumerei, I will _never_ know,” Iori says, exasperated.

“Iori,” Nagi says, and Iori resists the urge to correct the way he pronounces it. I- _oh!_ -ri. “That isn’t very nice. What would Mitsuki think if he heard you?”

“Yeah, Ichi,” Yamato says, pulling a plain steel flask out from the depths of the satchel. “Give us some more credit. Mitsu trusts us, we’re his best friends in the whole wide world, you know. Ah, after you, of course.”

Iori huffs, unwilling to admit that Yamato has a point.

Nikaido Yamato and Rokuya Nagi are the closest things his brother has to personal guards, a pair of wandering travelers who accompany Mitsuki wherever he goes, whether they have to cross borders on foreign business or cross the street to the bookstore. Their contrasting personalities, Yamato the cynic, and Nagi the idealist, have provided Mitsuki with fresh new viewpoints on Fontaine’s problems for years, allowing him to find the best solutions for all parties involved.

Iori doesn’t remember exactly when the pair showed up at the Izumi castle, only that ever since they did, the three of them were nearly inseparable. Mitsuki trusted them with his life—and more importantly, with his little brother.

And, to be fair, they’ve had their fair moments of friendship with Iori, too. Nagi was willing to discreetly take him to the handicrafts market, where he could purchase and admire the handmade stuffed animals ( _solely_ for the sake of supporting local business, he assures you) as much as he liked. Despite his careless appearance, Yamato was a worldly man who offered wise advice, especially when Iori came to him with rather personal questions that he would answer coolly with a _yes, Ichi, that’s totally normal for a guy your age._

Somewhere along the line, Iori began to trust the two of them, too. Not that he’s particularly eager to admit it.

“You’ve both been to Träumerei more recently than I have, Nikaido-san, Rokuya-san,” he says instead. “What have you heard about the royal Takanashi family?”

Nagi answers with a friendly smile. “What is it you want to know?”

“Anything, really,” Iori says. “I want to have at least a basic grasp on the royal family’s personalities before I’m supposed to gain their trust. Whatever information you can provide, no matter how trivial it may seem, will be a great help.”

Yamato hums thoughtfully, flask at his lips. “Well, tell us what you already know about them, and we’ll work from there.”

Iori nods, already pulling up memories of various meetings and parties and gatherings where he had seen the Takanashis. He remembers meeting the princess fairly well, how shocked he’d been to realize that Princess Takanashi Tsumugi had, indeed, been the same Tsumugi he’d befriended while he was staying in Träumerei.

“When I was a child,” Iori begins. “I met the Princess.”

“You _met_ the Princess of Träumerei?!” Nagi exclaims, startling both of the other passengers in the carriage, enough to make Yamato spill some of his wine and curse the loss. “ _The_ Princess Tsumugi? The radiant Heavenfell Summoner herself?!”

“Wait—what was that last one?”

“Radiant? Oh, is she _ever,_ ” Nagi swoons. “That lovely golden hair, those pearl pink eyes! And her smile, so gentle and sweet! Truly, she is a beauty among beauties!”

“Pretty sure he was talking about the whole ‘Heavenfell Summoner’ part, Nagi,” Yamato says.

“Oh?” Nagi blinks, turning to Iori for confirmation. Iori nods. “I see,” Nagi says, settling down. “Princess Tsumugi has what is quite possibly the mightiest summoning magic the world has ever seen. They say all of her royal guard is made up of the beasts and beings she has summoned, and even the king’s beloved rabbit companion is a product of her summons. I cannot be sure how true this is, but it _is_ a known fact that the princess is able to summon legendary creatures into existence; in the aftermath of a mudslide, she summoned two titans to stop the slide, and healing fairies to treat the injured.”

“That so?” Yamato whistles. “Princess packs a punch, huh. Never woulda’ guessed it from her.”

Nagi nods. “They even say that her personal guard is an angel.”

“An angel as a personal guard? That sounds rather far-fetched to me, even for a rumor,” Iori says.

“If you saw her, you would understand,” Nagi says. “She is the quickest warrior in the whole Takanashi guard. When a storm flooded a seaside village, she single-handedly brought half of its population to high ground, before the water even reached waist level. It is almost as if she has wings.”

“Note to self, don’t screw with the princess,” Yamato says, taking a swig from his flask. “‘Heavenfell,’ huh? Scary.”

 _Scary, indeed,_ Iori thinks. It’s difficult for him to believe that the wide-eyed, skittish girl he remembers is the same person as the fearsome sorceress Nagi is describing.

But then again, many things can change in just a few years. Iori knows this lesson by heart.

“And the king?” Iori questions. “Can you tell me what you know about him?”

Yamato flips onto his back, resting the flask on his chest. “Oh, don’t worry about old man Otoharu, he’s a sweetheart.”

“ _Old man?_ He’s the king!”

Yamato just waves a hand lazily in Iori’s direction. “Relax, he said I could. Oh, but don’t call him that yourself, that’s treason, you know.”

Iori makes an undignified noise. Sometimes it feels like he’s the only person in the world who cares about proper forms of address.

“For real, though, Otoharu’s just a mushy old fart. Sure, he’s a great king, stepped up to the throne all those years ago without any pressure, got the reparations for the parts of the palace and forests and villages that were destroyed up and running in no time, yada yada yada,” Yamato says. “He’s smart, yeah, and he can be cunning given the chance, but he’s as kind as they come. Just be the good boy you always are, Ichi, he’ll like you well enough.”

Before Iori can sputter and flush red at Yamato’s comment, he continues, “It’s his personal guard you have to watch out for. Whatever you do, do _not_ put yourself in any situation where you might have to fight him.”

Iori huffs. “Do you not believe I can hold my own in a fight?”

“No, I’m saying this as someone whose hands were almost sliced right off because I thought it was a good idea to tickle-ambush you,” Yamato says. “That man is _invincible._ He’s highborn, too—teleportation magic, I think it is. Rescued every single citizen from the sinking of their village during an earthquake. In and out like _that._ ”

Nagi frowns. “A wielder of teleportation magic, and he is a guard? Such rare magic belongs on a throne.”

“Rumor has it he’s some noble’s bastard son, so he can’t succeed the lineage. But there’s talk of him being related to the Izumis,” Yamato turns to Iori with a catlike grin on his face. “Ichi, Ichi, Ichi. You never told us you were a father!”

“Har, har,” Iori says, dryly. “You won’t make a fool of me with that one, Nikaido-san.”

Yamato responds by sticking his tongue out. “You’re no fun.” He shakes the flask a little, turns it upside down. “Damn, all out. Ichi?”

Iori gives Yamato a _look_ that hopefully conveys _This is_ not _what magic should be used for, Nikaido-san,_ but Yamato just jiggles the flask in front of Iori expectantly.

He closes his eyes and sighs, taking the flask from Yamato’s hand. He traces a simple magic emblem with his finger on the side of it, watches it glow, then shakes the flask gently to make sure the emblem activated properly. When he hears liquid slosh around inside, he hands the flask back to Yamato, who takes it back gleefully with a “Marry me, you’re the best.”

“All jokes _aside_ ,” Iori puts heavy emphasis on ‘aside’ by sending a nasty look Yamato’s way. “The king and princess’s guards seem perfectly capable as they are; there’s clearly no need for me to join either of them. How am I supposed to get closer to the Takanashi royal family if I’m not accepted into the royal guard?”

“Oh, but there is no need to fret!” Nagi says. “King Otoharu’s son is the most heavily protected royal of all the Takanashi family. If anything, you can apply as a guard for the prince.”

_The what._

“The _what?”_

“What’s the matter, you’re not in favor of serving the Takanashi prince?”

“No, I—I didn’t even know King Otoharu _had_ a son.”

Yamato sits up, staring at Iori with wide eyes. “Wait. For real?”

Iori nods. Yamato breathes out a low whistle. “You serious? He’s the talk of the town, these days. You can’t walk five steps down the street in Träumerei without hearing someone mention the prince.”

Iori raises an eyebrow in interest. “Care to enlighten me, then?”

Yamato crosses his arms and leans back on the seat. “Well, that’s the thing. I don’t really know much about him.”

“No one does,” Nagi sighs. “Everything about the Takanashi prince is an enigma. He never attends events or ceremonies, any sort of gathering where there will be a crowd. If it is small enough, and he _does_ decide to make an appearance, he will not speak at all. He has the princess communicate for him. He has yet to take a personal guard, either. Tens, perhaps even hundreds of knights have applied, within the last five years. Every single one of them was rejected. And he always has his face covered, too. I hear that even if he is just walking on palace grounds, he wears a veil. We can’t even figure out his age, since the king has named no heir to the throne.”

“No voice, no face, no friends,” Yamato says. “Not even a _name._ He’s a total mystery, always has been. Everything that’s rumored about him is exactly that: a rumor. We don’t know, because there’s nothing about him _to_ know.”

For a moment, Iori is awed. To keep a person’s entire identity under total lockdown for a full decade seemed _impossible_ , especially that of a _royal_.

“Well,” Iori begins, hesitantly. “Tell me about these rumors, then. Perhaps there’s truth in some of them.”

Yamato and Nagi exchange mischievous grins. “We were hoping you’d say that.”

“There are millions of rumors flying around about the prince’s hidden identity,” Nagi says, leaning forward eagerly. “For instance, that he is secretly a wanted mercenary. They even say that his guard is actually a band of assassins, and he is their leader. It’s why his guard is so large! They’re all full of secrets!”

Yamato follows Nagi’s posture, conspiratorial. “Or that he’s actually the child of a goddess. His name is holy, and must never be known by humankind. If anyone were to say it, they’d have the power of the gods on their side.”

“It would not be a stretch to believe that the Takanashi children have a goddess for a mother,” Nagi turns to Iori with a playful smile. “You have seen the princess’s beauty firsthand. Imagine those same marvelous features on the prince. It is no wonder that he must hide his face.”

Half-unwillingly, Iori’s brain conjures the image of a petite young man with Tsumugi’s soft blonde curls and rosy, innocent gaze.

“Ohoho,” Yamato snickers. “Ichi, you sly dog. You’re red as a beet!”

“Wha—I’m, I am _not!”_ Iori protests.

Yamato just elbows Nagi good-naturedly in the side. “Keep going, Nagi, he’s totally into him.”

“If you do fancy the prince, Iori, you may have a chance. I met a girl who used to work as a servant in the Takanashi palace,” Nagi says, stifling a giggle. “She saw a _dancer_ going into the prince’s room. And he did not come out again until days later!”

“If he looks anything like his sister, that’s no wonder. And even if you can’t see his face, you can see his body. I heard the Takanashi prince is _shredded_.”

“That he has an _eight-pack!”_

 _“Alright,”_ Iori says, grateful that his voice, at least, remains firm. His _thoughts_ , on the other hand, he will need to recompose. “That’s enough. I had hoped that at least _one_ of these rumors would give me a hint to understanding the prince’s nature, but, as I now see, they’re all baseless.” _Useless._

Yamato shrugs. “Sorry, Ichi. I did warn you that all we have are rumors, though.”

“Oh,” Nagi says. “All except _that_.”

“Ah. _That.”_

“Are you going to _tell_ me what you mean by _’that,’_ or should I just assume it’s more vulgar commentary on with the prince’s, might I remind you, _unknown_ appearance?”

“No,” Yamato says, lowering his voice. “Listen. In all seriousness, there’s something weird about the Takanashi prince. Other than the, you know, whole no-face thing. We mentioned the princess’s magic?”

“Right,” Iori says.

“She might be the most powerful _summoner_ in history, but she is not the most powerful _magician._ That, _”_ Nagi says. “would be the prince.”

“The flood, the mudslide, the earthquake; all of them affected Träumerei’s people, but if you take a ride down to where they happened, there’s no evidence of them at all,” Yamato says. “The princess and the guards might have rescued the citizens using their magic, but the prince’s magic was enough to reverse the damage _entirely.”_

Iori swallows before he, too, leans in closer to the pair. “Elemental magic? On a grand scale, maybe?”

Nagi shakes his head. “Not elemental. The prince’s abilities are entirely different from Mitsuki’s magic, and your brother is no weak magician by any means. People have seen the Takanashi prince raise whole cities from barren land without even so much as a breath out of place. He could certainly control the earth itself, if he so wished.”

“Everything about the Takanashi prince is a rumor, except this,” Yamato says. “That man’s magic isn’t human. It’s _monstrous.”_

A threatening shiver runs down Iori’s spine. Suddenly the idea of a doe-eyed young man with Tsumugi’s rabbit-like demeanor seems little more than wishful thinking. Instead, Iori’s mind replaces the princess lookalike with a man surrounded by darkness, magic that can reportedly warp the fabric of reality itself crackling in the palm of his hand. He stands tall, broad-shouldered, and through the thin barrier of a shadowy veil, his eyes glow a sinister gold.

_A monster of a prince._

Even as Yamato and Nagi fall back into more lighthearted conversation, Iori remains silent. He hasn’t even met the prince yet, but somehow he haunts him for the remainder of their journey to Träumerei.

“Looks like we’re here,” Yamato says, guiding Iori out of his daze. He jerks a thumb towards the carriage window. “Wanna say hi?”

Iori follows Yamato’s thumb, pulling back the little curtain and peering out the window. Surrounding the carriage are clusters of curious observers, pressed up close against the protective circle formed by the trio’s entourage. The people don vividly colored sashes in cardinal reds, sunny yellows, jewel blues—nothing like the muted browns and greens of Fontaine’s citizens. The adults tie them neatly around their waists or shoulders, while the children skip down the street with their sashes waving behind them, as if a rainbow had been broken up into ribbons. Behind the crowd, the street is paved with pretty cobblestone, the buildings lined with colorful banners that shimmer with light.

“Beautiful, is it not? Hi, girl!” Nagi’s voice jolts Iori from his awestruck staring. He’s right at home, waving elegantly at the citizens, winking and blowing kisses as the carriage passes by.

“Yes,” Iori says, lip twitching into a smile when Nagi ‘catches’ a kiss blown by a burly-looking man and swoons. “It’s the ‘Kingdom of Dreams’ for a reason, Rokuya-san.”

“Oh, you haven’t seen anything, yet,” Yamato says. He points off in the distance, and Iori’s breath catches when he lays eyes on a gorgeous palace in the distance, glittering white and gold.

The Träumerei royal palace is carved from pristine white stone with sunlight dancing across its tall peaks, giving it an ethereal glow. Encircling the ivory palace are gardens that are so exquisite that Iori wouldn’t be surprised to find out that they were maintained upon the hour, the paths expertly accented with vibrant flowers, marble statues, bubbling fountains, and crystal-clear reflective pools. Against the blue of the summer sky, the Träumerei royal palace is an oasis, a little piece of heaven gifted to earth from the gods themselves.

As the carriage approaches, the Fontaine party is joined by soldiers atop horses as pure white as the palace walls—Träumerei guards. They wear armor polished so thoroughly that you can see the reflections of their surroundings in the plates, but they forego helmets, instead wearing a dazzling smile. A troupe of dancers twirl their way forward between soldiers and servants alike with impeccable grace. The dancers are whirlwinds of satin scarves and silk garments, bangles and coin sashes ringing out. The onlooking servants cheer as the carriage passes by.

Iori looks at the soldiers and dancers and servants, one by one, many engaged with the entourage in friendly chatter. A dancer with slicked-back hair waves at Iori with an excited smile and sparkling green eyes. Iori darts his eyes away quickly, but not before offering the tiniest of smiles and a wave in return, making the man blush.

He hears Yamato whoop. “Get some, Ichi!”

Iori flushes, prepared to pipe up with a retort, but he bites back his tongue when a hush falls over the mass of people outside the carriage. All of a sudden, the carriage door swings open, and a guard helps Iori step out of the carriage onto the palace grounds.

In the middle of Träumerei’s festive, fairytale-esque atmosphere, Iori feels as though he’s in a daydream, but he snaps to attention when a man rides up to the crowd on a sleek black stallion, long dark hair tied back in a tidy ponytail. His billowing cerulean cloak is held together with a star-shaped brooch, the Takanashi family crest. The whole company dismounts and bows before the man at his arrival, and Iori tenses with nervousness. Yamato and Nagi step down from the carriage on either side of him, and the man, too, dismounts and bows when he meets their eyes.

“Yamato-kun, Nagi-kun,” the man says in a cool, mature voice. “It’s wonderful to see you both again.”

“Banri!” Nagi exclaims, catching the man in an affectionate hug when he returns to a stand. “It has been too long!”

“Back at you, Ogami-san,” Yamato says, dipping his head slightly. “Come on, don’t bow to an old man like me, let me see your handsome face. I missed you so much, I even brought you this healthy youngster as a gift. Go ahead, suck the youth outta him.”

The man rolls his eyes and laughs like a bubbling stream when Yamato throws a hand to his forehead, pretending to faint. “So I see. You must be the prince, then?” He falls to a knee, resting a hand over his chest. “I am Ogami Banri, chief instructor of the Takanashi company of knights, captain of the royal guard, and personal guard to His Majesty, King Takanashi Otoharu.”

“My name is Izumi Iori,” Iori says, pleased that finally, _someone_ other than him is displaying the correct gestures of respect. He decides, very quickly, that he likes this Ogami Banri. “Second prince of Fontaine. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ogami-san.”

Banri stands again, offering Iori a pleasant smile. Iori’s pulse skips a beat; Yamato definitely hadn’t been kidding when he mentioned Banri’s ‘handsome face.’ “Believe me, Prince Iori, the pleasure is all mine. My men will take the rest of your party to their own quarters. Please, allow me to escort you to His Majesty’s throne room. He will be overjoyed to know you have arrived in our kingdom safely.”

Iori nods, and Yamato claps him on the shoulder in goodbye. “We will see you at dinner,” Nagi murmurs into his ear, before he follows the guards and the remainder of the entourage to a different entrance. As Iori bids them both farewell, Banri gestures for him to follow him as he turns towards the castle, waving at a pair of servants to open an enormous pair of engraved double doors. He leads Iori to a long, lavish room, with the Takanashis’ star emblem emblazoned on every curtain, every tapestry, even patterned on the velvet carpet that leads to a trio of ornate golden thrones.

But what really draws Iori’s eye are the people sitting atop the thrones. In the center is a man swathed in a heavy burgundy cape. Around his head is a thick-banded crown studded with glittering diamonds and rubies. His posture is effortlessly elegant, spine straight, shoulders back, but the king looks less than an intimidating ruler, and more like a jovial father welcoming his beloved children home after a long day. He gently pets a happy-looking rabbit in his lap, and his warm eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. The king appears to be just as Yamato had described him: a kind old man.

Seated at his right is his daughter, Tsumugi, who...basically looks almost exactly as she did when they were children. Iori fights back a chuckle upon seeing the princess’s nervous appearance, rigid as a stick, hands clasped tightly but trembling in her lap. Her wide pink eyes try her absolute hardest to hold his gaze as regally as she possibly can, but she keeps glancing away from him and towards her father’s other side.

Jumpy as she is, though, Iori must admit—her transition into adulthood has treated her kindly, gifting her with smooth, pale skin and subtle curves in her figure, accentuated by her lacy white dress. Her hair has been carefully pinned in an updo, two loose curls framing each side of her face, a circlet that Iori very nearly confuses for a halo wrapped around her blonde curls. Iori recalls the rumor of her guard being an angel, but as she appears now, Iori very nearly believes that Princess Tsumugi is one herself.

A steady hand brushes against Tsumugi’s shoulder, a gesture so subtle and brief that Iori might not have caught it, if he weren’t paying such close attention to the trio in front of him. At Tsumugi’s other side is the ‘angel’ herself, a tall woman in the same shiny armor as the rest of the guards. Like Banri, she wears a cloak around her shoulders, though hers is a deep forest green, and from her star-shaped clasp protrudes two wings. Her fire-red hair is pulled into a tight bun, and she regards Iori with a fierce stare, as if challenging him to a duel precisely where he stands.

The throne at the king’s left is vacant.

Somehow, that sight alone makes Iori more anxious than any of the nobles in the room.

“My Lord, Your Majesty, King Takanashi Otoharu,” Banri says, approaching the thrones and sinking to a knee. Instead of resting his hand against his heart, though, like he did for Iori, Banri takes the king’s hand and lowers his head to touch it gingerly against his forehead. “Prince Izumi Iori of Fontaine and his company have arrived.”

At the mention of his name, Iori kneels before the king, repeating the introduction he had given Banri earlier.

King Otoharu looks at him kindly, as though inviting an old friend into his home. “Rise, Prince Izumi Iori. Welcome to Träumerei,” he says. His eyes twinkle. “Or perhaps, I should say welcome back.”

Iori does as the king commands, returning his smile with a polite one of his own. “My deepest thanks, Your Majesty, for allowing me to stay in your kingdom. It is an honor to once again be in your country. I do hope my skills may be of service to the Takanashi royal family during my stay.”

“Your brother spoke very highly of you, indeed, my boy,” King Otoharu says. “And my daughter remembers you from your residence here in Träumerei as a child. I have total faith in your abilities becoming some of our greatest assets, Iori-kun. It is I who should be thanking you and your family, for extending your hands in alliance with our humble lineage. You will be a fine knight in our company. Perhaps even captain! The gods know our beloved Banri-kun needs the workload taken off his shoulders.”

King Otoharu chuckles at his own joke, and Banri exhales in an almost-laugh. Iori smiles out of courtesy, but the weight of his next statement prevents him from laughing as the two men before him do.

_Now or never, Izumi Iori._

“Your Majesty, if it’s at all possible, I would like to request a position in the royal guard.”

“Oh? Very well,” King Otoharu says. “That sounds like a more than reasonable request. I believe your talents will be very finely cultivated under Banri-kun’s tutelage. Ah, unless you’d prefer to be in my daughter’s guard, with Akane-kun? It’s your choice, Prince Iori. I promise I won’t be mad if you choose my daughter!”

 _The king, or the princess._ In his mind, Iori weighs all the information he’d gathered on the Takanashis and their guards on the journey here. Tsumugi’s wellspring of magic. Her royal guard, Akane, the angel. King Otoharu, the perfect image of a king. Banri, the invincible. Where would he get the most information? Is he willing to restrict himself by being someone’s underling?

 _A monster of a prince,_ his mind echoes.

_Now or never._

“With all due respect, Your Majesty,” Iori says, keeping his tone evenly measured. “I would like to apply as the prince’s personal guard.”

Even without Tsumugi’s startled gasp, Iori can _feel_ the air in the room grow cold.

“How interesting,” King Otoharu hums. “Surely you’ve heard of the, ah... _peculiar_ circumstances surrounding my son, the prince?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“You will be judged by the prince himself, do you understand?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Prince Izumi Iori-kun,” Suddenly, the king’s friendly eyes turn sharp. “Due to my son’s circumstances, his exam comes with stricter conditions than my daughter’s, or even my own. If you fail to impress him, or if you withdraw, he will send you back home.” In challenge, King Otoharu narrows his eyes. “‘Tactician Prince’ or not.”

Some part of Iori wants to take it back. He’s only a young man of seventeen, after all; what is he doing, applying to be the personal guard to a prince that he knows next to nothing about? The king said he’d be sent back home, and home sounds _more_ than tempting at the moment. What he wouldn’t give to be back in Fontaine again. Away from this palace, teeming with secrets. Away from this whole country.

 _Away from you,_ he thinks, to the boy he can’t quite recall, when his eyes fall upon the flower still attached to his chest.

_You would leave me, all alone?_

“Your Majesty,” Iori says, meeting King Otoharu’s eyes with a challenge of his own. “Whatever conditions there are, I would like to apply as your son’s personal guard. If I am returned home, so be it, but I am a prince, and an Izumi, at that. If there’s one thing I will not do, I will not back down after I have taken a stand.”

For a moment, the whole room is suspended as the king deliberates. A mysterious smile plays on the king’s lips. “If that is what you wish, Prince Iori, then so be it. Tsumugi-kun,” the king says, making his daughter squeak. “Fetch your brother. Tell him to prepare for a guard examination.”

“Y-Yes, father!” Tsumugi says, jumping from her seat so fast she nearly trips on her own dress. Her guard, thankfully, catches her before she even realizes she’s stumbling, and the princess scurries off to find the absent prince, angel at her heels.

“Banri-kun,” the king says, once Tsumugi has left the room. “Take Iori-kun on a tour around the palace. It has been ten years since he last stepped foot in Träumerei,” he glances at the boutonnière on Iori’s chest. “He might as well see the palace, while he has the chance.”

“Yes, my lord,” Banri says, kneeling once more to the king in farewell. When he stands, he beckons Iori, “Come. It will be some time before the prince is ready.”

Iori nods and follows Banri out of the room, but not before bowing to the king himself and thanking him once more for his hospitality during his stay.

As he exits the room, Iori knows that King Otoharu’s eyes never leave his back, even as the door shuts behind him.

 

“That was one risky move you pulled back there, Prince Iori, staring down His Majesty like that,” Banri says, making long strides down the hallway of the palace. It’s moments like these that Iori is thankful he inherited his father’s tall stature. To match Banri’s pace, Iori’s own steps are brisk and quickened, lest he lose his guide entirely once he turns the corner. Iori had been lost in the Träumerei palace once before, and he was keen on not letting it happen again. “I don’t know what Fontaine teaches its royals, but you’d best not try that again.”

“I am an Izumi,” Iori says, half-skipping to avoid falling behind. “We do not go back on our word, no matter what.”

Banri sighs. “You royals are all the same.”

“Arrogant?” Iori asks.

“Stubborn,” Banri says, smiling fondly. “But, I like that about people. Stand for nothing, fall for everything, however the saying goes.”

The inside of the Träumerei royal palace is about the same as Iori remembers from ten years ago, walls and floors and columns pure as snow, accents and trim as gold as the light of the sun. Really, the only noticeable difference is the absence of the floral garlands that used to grace every surface.

Iori supposes they burned up in the fire.

Banri leads him to a spacious atrium that nearly blinds Iori with how much sunlight shines through. Crystal-clear, soaring windows replace the walls and give anyone within the atrium a stunning view of the palace gardens, and a stained glass dome towers overhead. Comfortable-looking benches line up against the windows, cushioned with expensive throw pillows and blankets. Rows of lush greenery and flora sprout from planters embedded in the floor, and in the center of it all is a pool of azure water, a tiled circular platform rising from its center.

“I don’t recall this ever being here,” Iori says, raising a hand to shield his eyes.

“You like it?” Banri says. “The prince started building it, after the fire. We didn’t know what to do with the lost wing, so he took it upon himself to rebuild it as he saw fit. It’s his own personal garden, of sorts.”

Iori hums, listening, but not truly hearing. He’s too busy focusing on a nagging feeling that tugs at his chest when he looks at the atrium.

“Ogami-san,” Iori says. “Would it be alright for me to step inside?”

Banri nods. “Go ahead, he won’t mind. His Highness is quite proud of his work.”

So Iori does.

The closer he gets, the more the purpose of the atrium become apparent. In stark contrast to the vivid rainbow of flowers that occupy the gardens below, every blossom in the atrium, from the irises, to the chrysanthemums, to the liliums, is a ghostly white. The pattern of the stained glass is that of two angels, curling up around a constellation in the center, one deep in sleep, the other shedding tears. Iori steps onto the platform in the middle of the pool and counts five, six, seven flower petals formed from the tiles. _Starflower._

The atrium is no mere garden, Iori realizes, a chill trailing down the back of his neck.

_This is a tomb._

“Oh, dear,” Banri says, looking out the window.

Curious, Iori crosses to the window and looks down. In the gardens, a head of curly blonde hair is fussing over an unfamiliar figure, while her guard looks on in amusement.

Banri clicks his tongue. “That child…this is the third time this week.”

The target of Tsumugi’s frantic stream of dialogue is a lean young man in loose, flowing clothes—a dancer, maybe? Iori can’t really make out the features of his face, but he can see the the slenderness of his shoulders, the curve of his neck as he bows his head to the princess, the defined lines of his abs and Adonis belt dipping below his hips—

“Prince Iori?” Iori practically jumps out of his skin when Banri’s voice reaches his ears. “Shall we continue with the tour?”

Iori clears his throat and hastily answers, “O-Oh, yes, right,” hoping that Banri doesn’t catch the flush creeping up his neck. Banri looks at him, puzzled, but doesn’t say anything about it, continuing to lead Iori around the palace.

They’re just finishing up all there is to see in the palace when a mousy-faced servant with twin braids catches up to them, slightly out of breath. She calls for Banri’s attention, and shrinks shyly once his eyes are on her.

“Ogami-san,” she says, in a squeaky voice befitting of her appearance. “T-The, ah, the prince is ready f-for his audience with Prince Izumi.”

Banri smiles at her. “Thank you, Hirose-san. I’ll take Prince Iori to His Highness in the training hall right away.”

The servant, Hirose, bows quickly to Banri, then once again, more deeply, to Iori before she scampers off. Banri turns to Iori. “Shall we, then?”

Within seconds, every nerve that had buzzed in Iori’s body alights again, as they stand before another pair of heavy white doors, this one studded with rubies. Iori swallows thickly, opening and closing his right hand, over and over, willing his frenzied mind to relax. He’s the ‘tactician prince,’ after all. Calculating. Cold. No matter what the problem is, he will keep a level head.

“Nervous?” Banri asks in a concerned whisper.

Iori shakes his head, but he has a feeling the older man sees right through him. Banri, thankfully, only sighs and mutters, “Royals.” before he pushes the double doors open without giving Iori the chance to back out.

Banri may have referred to it as a ‘training hall,’ but aside from the rack of spare clothes off to the side and the rows of equipment propped up against the walls, the room looks very similarly to the throne room. It has the same star-printed carpet and banners, and even a smaller, less glamorous version of the Träumerei throne sits at the far end of the room on a raised platform, allowing total surveyance of the training hall to its occupant.

The Takanashi prince is a sight to behold, sitting prim and proper, dressed from head to toe in white—and when Iori says head to toe, he means, _head to toe._ Iori can’t see an inch of skin, anywhere he looks. Even the prince’s hands and feet are covered by sleek white gloves and spotless white boots. Perhaps the only piece of the prince’s ensemble that isn’t pure white is the headpiece he wears on the right side of his head, a golden Takanashi star with high arcing prongs.

And, of course, a shimmering, pearlescent veil that obscures the entirety of his face and neck.

Iori’s first thought is _angel._

His second, _shooting star._

His third is a concept he doesn’t wholly have the language to describe—not quite a feeling, not really a thought. It’s a cosmic push and pull between the two men, something etched into his very bones that draws him nearer to the prince but warns him to keep his distance, all the same.

 _Fate_ , says the romantic still left in him.

 _Omen,_ says the cynic.

“I present,” says Banri, “Prince Izumi Iori of Fontaine, as an applicant for the position of His Highness’ personal guard.”

Banri gestures for Iori to step forward, so he does. He takes a knee and bows his head. “Your Highness. In alliance with your honorable kingdom, my country has gifted you with our own troops. I stand here today to offer myself, Izumi Iori, as Your Highness’ sword and shield.”

When the court says nothing, Iori chances a glance upwards.

Wait.

The prince is just as poised as it was moments ago, but he is leaning slightly forward. His fingers twitch the most miniscule amount as he fidgets, rolling his shoulder, tightening up his posture to appear composed.

Is it just him, or—does the prince look _excited?_

“Thank you, Ogami-san,” Tsumugi says, standing at the prince’s right. She seems to be a bit more in control of herself, at her brother’s side. Iori knows the same feeling. “My brother accepts Prince Iori’s application. Please begin the exam.”

The examination begins with a display of Iori’s archery, the present servants quickly but effectively arranging a series of targets for Iori to hit. Ten of them are in a curving arc on the ground, though there are a few that hang alongside banners, and more still on the walls.

It isn’t exactly the most challenging setup Iori has seen.

When a servant presents him with a bow and quiver full of arrows, Iori feels his racing heart come to a slow, like a pond of water returning to stillness after the drop of a stone. Archery requires a clear mind and unbreakable focus. Thankfully, Iori has both of these in spades.

The ten targets on the floor are as easy to hit as breathing, and he does so flawlessly, effortlessly sending his arrows into all the targets’ bullseyes within seconds. The hanging targets require a little more thought, but not much; Iori still scores perfect points in record time. All that’s left now, are the ones on the—

_Since when were they moving?_

The targets once mounted to the walls now float in the air, circling each other back and forth, widening and narrowing the gaps between each other. They form shapes, lines, some even return to hanging on the wall. _Magic._ It does present a challenge, but...the motions of the targets are still a pattern. If he follows each one... _there!_

The court _ooh_ s and _aah_ s when Iori strikes the targets straight in their centers, but he doesn’t care much for their praises, at the moment. Instead, he turns around and trains his eyes on the prince, who’s cocking his head innocently. Though his pose says _Who, me?_ Iori notices that he’s leaning a bit forward, eager to see more.

Despite himself, Iori finds the prince a little adorable.

The second phase of the examination is a test of Iori’s swordsmanship, which, again, easy enough. Iori was his trainer’s star pupil, and it shows in the natural grace with which he carries a rapier.

Before Iori stand three automatons that the servants had pulled from one of the equipment racks. They’re noticeably larger than the average man, cutting a bulky figure and rising nearly a head and a half taller than Iori, and they each carry two shortswords, but Iori’s not worried. The objective is to deactivate them by attacking them in ‘vitals,’ and Iori is sure enough of his own skill to do it.

The first few moments are an introduction, of sorts, Iori watching each automaton’s motions, stepping out of the way of their attacks just in time. They’re intimidating at first glance, sure, but they’re machines, after all: they’re not terribly difficult to analyze, if Iori knows he’s looking for a pattern (which he does).

One of the automatons swings high, but instead of ducking, Iori steps to his right. As he predicts, one of the other automatons comes in low, leaving Iori with the chance to spear the remaining automaton through the stomach, bringing it to a kneel directly in the path of the other automatons’ routines.

When one of them moves exactly according to pattern, it stumbles over its companion’s motionless form, sending it to the ground. Iori takes the opportunity to pierce it through the back, leaving the two inactive automatons lying in a heap on top of each other. All that’s left now is the third auto— _what in god’s name?!_

Where the automaton once held a pair of shortswords, it now carries a flog of flowery vines and a blade that seems to be made of rushing water. _It’s like a child’s toy,_ Iori thinks, a spray of perfume misting his face as the automaton swings its flog. _Come to life._

He resists the urge to parry the automaton’s sword attack, instead using his blade to catch the brunt of its flog attack. The vines curl tightly around Iori’s rapier, and he pulls hard, wrenching the flog from the automaton’s hand.

It staggers forward, giving Iori the perfect chance to thrust his blade into its mechanical heart. The automaton, defeated, comes to a halt and clatters to the ground.

The audience is awed, but Iori only barely registers the sounds of their applause. Instead, he turns his eyes towards the prince, whose shoulders are trembling in silent laughter. Tsumugi seems to be scolding him for meddling, and the prince raises a hand and waves it in front of his face, a gesture that Iori knows, somehow, means _Sorry!_

Iori turns away before he’s caught rolling his eyes as hard as he can towards the mischievous prince.

The last phase of the examination, as Banri so announces, is a display of Iori’s magic prowess. He’s set to duel against another noble, a skinny, pale man who doesn’t _appear_ to pose much of a threat. Iori vaguely recognizes his face; Sawashiro, earl of a forest territory in Esmeralda, if he remembers correctly. In the few minutes they’ve been given to prepare, Iori watches the man form a sword out of crystal. _Quartz magic._

Iori runs a finger over the blade of his rapier, marking it with an emblem for solidification. Sawashiro builds plates of crystal armor next, and Iori etches emblems for speed against the backs of his boots. For extra measure, he traces a wind emblem on his left hand, and an ice emblem on his right. Five emblems. He’s controlled more before, but he’ll still need to be careful how many he activates at a time. He briefly activates the ice emblem and watches it glow.

He isn’t sure how he hears it—perhaps he’d been listening for it, on some level, but the prince gasps, ever so slightly, when a snowflake crystallizes in Iori’s hand.

Iori looks back at the prince with searching eyes; had he really heard that? The prince _looks_ as composed as ever, but...something’s different about how Iori sees him now. He knows what he heard, what he saw in the prince’s earnest body language. He _knows_ what the prince is dying to hear.

_Does he dare?_

“Are both parties ready?” Banri calls. Sawashiro affirms his position, but Iori hesitates.

It would be easy, to just let go of his hunches, follow the calculations he’s already made. Even without his emblems, given enough time, Iori could rout him without breaking a sweat.

He could win. He _would_ win, easily.

King Otoharu’s warning rings in his mind. _If you fail to impress him, he will send you back home._

Well. His intuition has already made an impression on the king.

“If I may, Ogami-san,” Iori wills his voice not to betray the uncertainty of his racing heart. “I do not believe my magic ability can be accurately measured with Earl Sawashiro as my opponent.”

Banri stares at him in surprise. “Is that so, Prince Iori?”

Iori nods. “Yes, that’s correct. Earl Sawashiro is a wielder of quartz magic, correct? While it is a powerful asset for a defensive battle, this _is_ a duel; we will both equally occupy positions of offense and defense. I have no doubt that he will present a fine challenge, but with all due respect to His Lordship, my own magic will overtake him in a matter of minutes.”

Banri blinks. “That’s a bold claim, Prince Iori. One might even call it arrogance.”

“It’s merely the product of my analysis, Ogami-san,” Iori says. “Earl Sawashiro’s quartz magic is, at its core, simply one element, whereas my emblem magic provides me with access to a wide range of abilities.”

“Mm,” Banri hums, thoughtfully. “I suppose you have a point. Well then, mighty ‘Tactician Prince,’” He sweeps an arm across the air. “You may select your opponent from the court present. The Lady Toki wields impressive vortex magic, if you prefer to duel her.”

“Ogami-san, where would my honor as a royal be,” Iori says, turning his body to face the prince and earning shocked whispers from the crowd. “If I did not challenge the most powerful opponent in the room?”

The next few moments are a long held breath, Iori holding his eyes firm on the prince’s startled form. The court is silent as the two lock eyes. To Iori, it’s as if he and the prince are the only two in the universe. Iori has offered the prince his pride, and now it’s in his hands to decide whether it is enough to survive as a guard.

As a prince.

Much to the court’s surprise, the prince rises from his throne. Underneath his clothing, the prince’s muscles move with a fluid grace that he’s certain the prince could only have obtained through rigorous training. Perhaps from combat? Dance? _Combative_ dance?

But even as his movements appear to be meticulously controlled, even down to his last toe, there’s an energetic bounce to his step that he can’t quite cover. It’s evident even as he makes his way towards the equipment racks, how his fingers dance over each weapon, how his head tilts slightly to the left in thought. It’s a childlike excitement, well hidden behind his princely exterior, but not enough to elude Iori’s sharp eyes.

For one of Träumerei’s greatest mysteries, the prince is surprisingly honest.

The prince selects a set of seven lances from the rack, and for a moment, Iori wonders how he’s planning to use them all.

Then, he gets his first taste of the prince’s magic. With a wave of his hand, the lances rise into the air, forming a perfect arc around the prince’s form, like the rays of the sun. When he flexes his fingers, the lances move with them in perfect synchronization. Iori can’t help but gasp; seven metal lances in the air, and under total control. All without even breaking a sweat.

Iori admits, perhaps challenging the prince wasn’t his brightest idea ever, but he’ll at least see it through to the end.

“Bow to each other,” Banri instructs. Iori does so first, bending deep at the waist. Then the prince bows, low enough to match Iori’s, recognition of each other as fellow princes. “And...begin!”

As soon as the word leaves Banri’s mouth, Iori activates the emblems on his ankles to weave in between the lances that surge forward with a flick of the prince’s hand. The prince swings two on either of Iori’s sides, and he backs away at breakneck speed to evade it.

The prince is smart, always leaving at least two at his side, just in case Iori gets past him, but he’s painfully honest. All of his attacks are quick, forceful, and straightforward. While he excels in raw power, Iori has him beat in technique, reading him like a book and using his enhanced speed to dart out of the way of every attack.

Iori almost feels a bit sorry for the Takanashi prince, but, if he does say so himself, the match is practically won already.

The prince sends forward a triple-pronged attack, lances coming in at Iori at his left, right, and front. In the split second he has before he’s hit, Iori constructs a wall of ice to trap the lances in place, emblem burning hot on his hand. The prince’s shoulders droop just slightly, and Iori bites back a childish laugh at the prince’s cute display of disappointment.

And yes, he means cute. He’ll allow himself this much, calling the prince’s adorable demeanor as he sees it. Why shouldn’t he, when the prince spins away from his ice attacks with a flourish, when his movements are so mesmerizing? The prince moves as though he’s drawing Iori closer to him, and before Iori realizes it, he’s playing the game, too, matching the prince’s entrancing finesse with a sweep of his feet.

They dance across each other, their magic being the music, a crescendo upon the prince’s lance attacks, a ritardando when Iori focuses his energy in his ice. Every step one of them takes, the other mirrors, equal distance, equal intensity. Even without anyone seeing his face, Iori understands how the prince has attracted so many admirers; people are pulled into his waltz, whether they like it or not, curiosity piqued by the mystery, and hunger sated by the pure beauty of the prince’s innocent heart, shining past his veil, even without words being exchanged.

But the dance does not last forever, and Iori is determined to win. He conjures spears of ice that spring up from the ground and only barely miss the prince. The prince dodges, easily, gracefully, and Iori would be a little impressed, if the prince hadn’t played directly into the palm of Iori’s hand and settled himself in the prime position for a strike.

Raising his left hand, Iori calls upon wind to push him forward, a headfirst charge with his rapier pointed directly at the prince. Iori is fast, but the prince is even faster; he intercepts Iori’s attack with a defensive cross of his lances, shoving him back with a push of both his hands. Gritting his teeth, Iori wills for the negation of the emblems on his ankles, instead channeling their magic energy into the wind at his back to push towards the prince. Nearer, _nearer,_ Iori edges ever closer to the prince, slowly overtaking him as the seconds tick by. He charges the emblem on his rapier with magic energy and it glows, powered up, ready to _win—_

A voice like the summer sky pierces the air, clear and bright and _beautiful._ It transports Iori back to a place he hadn’t known he remembered, a field of small blue flowers, the smell of baking bread, summer warmth all around him as he leans back against a small boy, no more than eight years old, humming a distantly familiar tune. It’s the sound of home, of comfort, and Iori is eager, willing, wrapping himself up tight in the tenderness of the voice that fills him with love, love, _love._

When Iori snaps back to the present moment, every one of the prince’s lances is pressing gently against his skin. He isn’t sure if the prince brought him to his knees or if he bent willingly under his spell, but one thing is certain.

“Defeat,” Banri calls from the sidelines. “For Prince Iori of Fontaine.”

The court is speechless, and for that, Iori is grateful. He doesn’t know what to say as a tight ball of shame curls in his stomach. The prince stands before him, slightly out of breath, but overall still as composed as he was the moment Iori stepped into the room.

Still on his knees, Iori bows his head. “You have bested me, Your Highness. I accept my loss, and His Majesty has warned me of the consequences of failing your test,” he says, clenching his hands into fists so as not to reveal his own humiliation. “It was...truly, an honor to have witnessed the strength of your magic firsthand.”

The prince extends a hand to Iori, pulling him up from his knees. Iori makes to bow, but the prince tugs on his shoulders, as if rejecting the display of submission.

“What—” Iori starts. But of course, the prince does not answer. Instead, the prince takes his hand, clasping it tight between his own, raising their intertwined hands to his lips. While Iori flushes deep red, the prince leads him by the hand back to Banri, gesturing at the guard with his hands. Iori doesn’t understand a thing, but Banri appears to get the message loud and clear.

“Yes, Your Highness,” Banri says with a strained smile. “Prince Iori, please follow me.”

Iori just...can’t seem to summon words, as Banri leads him out into the hall. He looks over his shoulder, hoping he’ll meet Tsumugi’s eyes and she, at least, will give him _some_ clue as to what’s happening now, but all he sees is the prince, waving goodbye before he darts away to help the servants clean up the mess of the training hall.

“In any other court,” Banri says, once the doors shut behind them. “You would be hanged for treason.”

Iori’s shoulders slump, but Banri’s walking down the hall before he even gets a word in. “Standing against the king, challenging the prince...should I warn Akane-san about you dueling the princess next?” He sighs. “I’ve been around royals since birth, and I still don’t understand them in the slightest. And now, I know the Izumi line is no exception.”

“It was a stupid decision on my part, Ogami-san,” Iori says, wincing. “I will admit that. And I will return home without complaint.”

Banri comes to a sudden stop in the hall and shoots Iori a puzzled look. “Return home? You don’t get to return home. You’re the prince’s personal guard now, aren’t you?”

_What._

“I’m his _guard?_ But—but I lost, didn’t I?”

Banri shakes his head. “Yes, you did. But, the challenge wasn’t to defeat the prince, it was to _impress_ him. And adapting to the prince’s tricks like that, even _challenging him_ to a duel, knowing full well what the rumors say about his magic? I’d say you impressed him plenty, Prince Iori.” He smiles at him. “Or should I call you Iori-kun instead? I’m your senior, after all, now that we’re both Takanashi guards.”

“Wh—Iori- _kun?”_

“Okay, Iori-kun it is, glad you agree,” and then, before Iori can protest further, “Here we are! These are your chambers.”

The door opens into a spacious room with high ceilings and windows that appear to occupy the whole of the far wall. The walls are a creamy white canvas for the delicate lace-like patterns painted over them, and the floor is padded with a plush carpet that Iori almost feels is _blasphemous_ to step foot on with shoes.

Carved into the wall is an arcing alcove that houses the bed, a king-sized mattress fitted with snow-white sheets and a thick, fluffy, royal blue comforter. A pile of pillows that Iori’s sure he could get lost in if he sleeps in long enough sits at the head of the bed, looking oh-so inviting for his body, weary from the long, _long_ day he’s had.

“I do hope you like it,” Banri says. “I designed it myself. Modeled it after Yamato-kun’s tales of Fontaine.”

“It’s wonderful,” Iori says. “It...truly does remind me of home.”

Banri laughs joyfully. “You sound tired. The bathroom is through that door,” he points to a plain wooden door, next to a finely-carved wardrobe and matching roll-top desk. “You should bathe before dinner. His Highness’ living quarters are through that door opposite. After your bath, report to him for any instructions. We’ll start your official training as a personal guard tomorrow morning.”

“Wait, Ogami-san,” Iori says, before Banri can exit the room. “I—just wanted to thank you. For the room. And the tour, and...for your mentorship, as a guard.” Iori bows his head towards his new senior. “The gods know I will need it, guarding a royal like the prince.”

While Iori had meant it as a light-hearted joke, the grim set of Banri’s lips sends a chill of anxiety down Iori’s spine. When Banri speaks next, it is careful. “Prince Iori. As the prince’s personal guard, there will be no one closer to him than you, do you understand?”

“Y-Yes, Ogami-san.”

“You are a Takanashi guard now. Your status as Prince of Fontaine will not protect you here. You are the prince’s sword and shield, first and foremost. An attempt on his life could very well turn into a sacrifice of yours.”

Iori gulps. “You will be privy to his every thought, desire, and secret. You and the prince must work in tandem; rhythm and melody, heart and soul. I will ask this once more of you, Prince Iori. Do you understand?”

What runs through Iori’s mind is a blur—conspiring with his brother, Yamato and Nagi’s rumors in the carriage, meeting the king, the prince’s constructed tomb, the examination.

The mysterious force that charged the air when he first laid eyes on the prince.

The pounding of his heart, entwined with the prince in a dance of blades and magic, encased in the song that he _felt_ more than he heard.

Without even knowing the prince’s name, Iori has come to _know_ him, more than he’s ever known anyone before.

“I understand, Ogami-san.”

And at this, Banri smiles, more genuinely. “Very good. You are in good hands, Prince Iori. The prince may be a mystery to the public, but to his family, he is impossibly kind. He is as willing to protect you as you are to protect him. And, to be honest,” he says, a laugh playing on his lips. “I think you two are perfect for each other.”

 

When Iori steps out of the bath, steam rising from his pampered muscles, all he wants is to collapse on the bed and sleep for years _._ Some servants must have come in while he was in the bath, as the wardrobe has been filled both with the clothes he had brought from home, and some clothes he doesn’t recognize; gifts from his hosts, he believes. He pulls on a deep blue button-up and black slacks, both of which are made of fabric that feels impossibly soft for how clean-cut they look. After the events of the day, even Iori, ever the infamous workaholic, wishes for nothing more than to revel in the softness of his clothes, dive into bed, and rest.

Of course, with a new position comes new duties. Iori can no longer rest on his own schedule; he’s at the mercy of the prince.

Gently, Iori knocks on the other door. “Your Highness?”

“Come in,” comes a voice, muffled from the other side of the door.

For a moment, Iori is stunned. He hadn’t expected to hear what is most likely the _prince’s_ voice from the other side. Thanks to the rumors he’d heard, on some level, perhaps Iori had even believed the prince didn’t _have_ a voice.

But something about the prince’s voice rings a thousand golden bells in his mind—and it’s the search for that something that ultimately pushes him past the simple wooden door.

It’s not the glare of the sunset shining through the massive window that stops him in his tracks. It’s not the drape of flowers cascading from the ceiling, as if hiding this room from the rest of the world. It’s the sight of the prince, unveiled, glowing gold against the backdrop of the setting sun. It’s the fire red of his hair, the shining rubies of his eyes, the soft smile that graces his pink lips when he sees Iori. It’s the timbre of his voice, warm and inviting, as if weaved from a memory, as he says, “You found me.”

Iori is left breathless as he stares at the face of Nanase Riku, ten full years after the world mourned his death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again!!! i am super sorry this is so late, i was supposed to have the original, 8k chapter up before the twins' birthday but then anime expo happened and then this chapter became 12k and i ,
> 
> ANYWAys thank you all for the comments and kudos, i'm so grateful people are taking interest in the fantasy au!! please enjoy the first real chapter, and stay along for the ride!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SO SORRY THIS IS SO LAte oh my gosh and i went way over my planned 8k again. i am so sorry
> 
> this story has garnered so much attention and support, i'm so endlessly grateful to all of you for giving this au a chance!!! i may be slow to work, and there's no way i can respond to each and every comment or question, but i'm so, so thankful for everyone's support. you guys are the reason this au keeps going! thank you, so much!
> 
> additionally, WE HAVE ART NOW!!!!
> 
> the [flower crowning scene](https://twitter.com/mana_iac/status/1021438150877405184) as renditioned by mana!!!!!
> 
> [ioriku farewell kiss](https://twitter.com/QualiaNoEtrange/status/1020710566137122817?s=19) drawn by lledo!!!!!
> 
> these two have already received my full-fledged love and gratitude (and more than just a few actual, real-life tears) but THANK YOU BOTH so so so much for these beautiful pieces of art!!!! they're my wallpapers now, actually lol....if you have made anything related to this au, please PLEASE link it to me!! i would absolutely adore seeing it!!!!

This is a dream. It _must_ be a dream.

Nanase Riku is dead, it is fact. The sky is blue, the grass is green, and Nanase Riku died in the attack on the Träumerei royal palace ten years ago.

And yet, here he is, standing before him like he’d never been gone, round face slimmed down to a soft yet mature jawline, innocent eyes just as rabbit-like as the day they’d met. Nanase Riku is here, in front of him, graceful and lovely and perfectly _alive._

“Nanase-san,” Iori breathes, his voice still trembling in his shock.

“Iori,” Riku says, taking another step closer. Iori can practically feel Riku’s body heat radiating off him, proof that he is, indeed, real. “We meet again.”

Riku bows his head to Iori, scarlet red locks very nearly brushing against Iori’s skin. A wistful smile spreads across Riku’s face when he lays eyes on the blue flower pinned to Iori’s shirt. Iori, for his part, is too stunned to even move. “Why are you... _how_ are you...?”

“You’re _tall_ now,” Riku pouts, standing on his tiptoes. “Even taller than me! That’s so unfair, Iori!”

 _He’s alive,_ Iori thinks, blinking back tears as Riku’s warmth envelops him. Riku is still trying to measure himself up against Iori, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He’s so close, so _warm,_ exactly what Iori would have pictured Riku to grow up to be had he known he was still alive. _Is_ alive.

He’s _alive._

But Riku’s carefree smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

“You’re supposed to be dead,” Iori’s voice is nothing more than a whisper. All at once, Riku goes still.

“And _you’re_ supposed to be safe at home,” he says, running an affectionate hand through Iori’s hair and down his jaw. “Why are you here? Why did you come back?”

Iori presses Riku’s hand closer to his skin, feeling its warmth, memorizing the spread of his fingertips against his cheek. _You’re alive,_ he wants to say. _I missed you. I thought I lost you, my love, my sunshine._

“Why?” He says instead. “Why are you here?”

Riku gives him a wry smile. “That’s kind of rude, don’t you think? This is my home, after all. You didn’t answer me, Iori. What are you doing here?”

“How did you survive?” Iori says, not truly hearing Riku’s words. “The attack, the fire, Nanase-san— _Nanase-san...”_

“I’m sorry,” Riku sets his hands carefully on Iori’s shoulders when they start to tremble. “I’m sorry. But I’m here now. I’m here, Iori.”

Riku’s touch is as warm as ever, a wave of comfort lapping at the places that his fingers grace.

Through a shaking breath, Iori says, “They said you were dead.”

“I know,” Riku says, barely above a whisper. “I told them to.”

“...you _what?”_

“Nanase Riku perished in the fire,” Riku starts, still not meeting Iori’s eyes. “That’s what you heard, wasn’t it? _I_ spread that rumor. It was what I wanted to happen.” He breathes out an imitation of a laugh. “It’s true, anyways. Nanase Riku is no more. Only Takanashi Riku remains.”

“What,” Iori says. “What—what do you mean, by that?”

“My name is Takanashi Riku,” Riku replies. He smiles again, but it’s laced with something strange, something that Iori could only describe as self-deprecating. And even then, the term still doesn’t quite capture the odd layer of _something_ that underlies his smile. “That night, I lost my entire family. My mother, my father, my—” Riku falters, here. “...my elder brother. They were all lost to the Empire’s agents. I was impossibly lucky that night, that Tsumugi found me and carried me to safety. If she’d even been a moment later, I’d have died of the smoke before the fire could even reach me.”

Iori’s head is spinning. “But, but _Takanashi_ Riku? You changed your last name?”

Riku shrugs. “I had to. I was no more than eight years old, Iori, you remember that. I could never have survived on my own, bearing the Nanase name. Takanashi-sama—the king, that is—agreed to protect me. He took me in as his own child. The Nanases are dead. That’s what the world knows. And it needs to stay that way.”

“What—but _why?”_

“That,” Riku says, breath hitching. When Iori looks at him quizzically, Riku shifts his gaze away. “That’s not important.”

 _“Not important?”_ Iori says, incredulous. He pulls away from Riku’s touch. “This whole time, you’ve been alive? And you think that’s _not important?_ We all thought you were— _I_ thought you were—”

“I’m sorry,” Riku tries to approach him, hands outstretched. “Iori, I’m sorry. But it’s alright, I’m here now, everything’s okay—”

“It is _not okay!”_ Iori whirls around, pushing Riku’s hand away. “Ten years, _ten_ years—did you _never_ think to contact me? To tell the people who care about you that you’re _alive?”_

Riku flinches. When he speaks, it’s as though his voice is trying to escape through a block in his throat. “I—I couldn’t. I couldn’t have done that.”

 _“Why not?”_ Iori says. “Why did you have to hide? Why couldn’t you _say something?”_

“That’s not—”

_“I mourned your death!”_

Before he can stop himself, the frustration in Iori’s voice flows over his lips like lava. Riku recoils at the sound of it, backing himself up against a table. His eyes shine wet with tears, and _some_ part of Iori wants to take it back, to hold him tight, but—

But his heart is in too much commotion for him to even entertain the idea. The rush of emotion came so suddenly, burning his throat and lungs and chest until it feels as though he may very well scatter like ash, and it has been far, far too long since Iori has last had to deal with them. Only days ago, he had been so sure he’d frozen his heart.

Then again, he had also been sure Riku was dead.

“I grieved for you,” Iori says, his voice thick through a layer of tears. “I thought—I thought I would never see you again. I thought you were–”

A sob tears its way through Iori’s lungs, and his knees buckle. Riku catches him in his arms. He’s too weak to stand back up, body wracked with violent tremors every time he even tries to breathe, so Riku just holds him there against his shoulder.

“Tell me,” Iori pleads, his voice softened. He chokes down another harsh sob that threatens to spill over. “Please. What happened that night?”

“That’s—”

 _“Please,”_ he begs. “Don’t say it’s not important. You’ve always been important.” _I’ve missed you, all this time._ “Nanase-san—”

A soft knock on the door interrupts them. “Your Highness,” calls a voice. “Your dinner. I’ll leave the cart outside your door, as usual.”

Riku jumps slightly at the voice, but eventually exhales heavily, relieved. He murmurs, “Thank you, Uemura-san,” in a voice so quiet that there is no doubt in Iori’s mind no one aside from him could have possibly heard.

True to Iori’s thoughts, the servant, Uemura, makes no indication that she had heard, and as the sounds of her footsteps fades away, Riku speaks again. “You should eat, too, Iori. Spend the rest of the night away from...um. Me.”

“What? No,” Iori protests, lifting his head. He can’t leave now. He’s still got so much to say to Riku, so much to ask. “No, I—I won’t just—”

“Iori,” Riku says, smile plastered on his face once again, as if it had never left, as if he hadn’t been on the verge of tears mere moments ago. “You’re obviously hurting because of me. It may have been ten years since I’ve last seen you, but it hurts just as much as ever to see you cry.”

Iori doesn’t want to go—not when there’s still so many questions he wants, _needs_ to be answered before he can even _hope_ to sleep peacefully again, but...

“We’ll talk,” Riku says. For a moment, his expression flickers, melts something more serious. “We’ll talk about it. I promise.”

So Iori agrees.

“...you promise?”

“I do,” The smile returns to Riku’s face. “Maybe not tonight. You’re tired, from both the exam and the journey, I’ll bet. But someday.”

“Someday, he says,” Iori mutters.

“Someday _soon,”_ Riku laughs, weakly. “I promise. Really. You’re my guard, Iori.”

Riku takes Iori’s hand, cradling it gently between his own. He presses a soft kiss to the knuckle, and smiles at him. “You, of all people, deserve to know.”

And with that, Iori bids Riku farewell, bowing to him as respectfully as ever. He feels as if he’s on autopilot, though, too caught up in his own head to fully process their goodnight. He returns to his room in half a daze and splashes cold water on his face, hopefully disguising that he’d been crying. Water droplets aside, it’s hard to see through the haze clouding his thoughts, but somehow, he comes to two conclusions.

The first is that, perhaps, his heart hadn’t been as frozen as he’d thought—perhaps it had been like the prince himself, simply hiding away behind an impenetrable veil until it had been ready to see Iori again. In the face of Riku’s warmth, Iori _burns,_ all the emotions he thought he’d sealed away amalgamating into a swirling mass at the forefront of his heart. It’s total disorder, the opposite of everything he’d taught himself to value, and yet, it’s all his mess, and he knows it.

The second is that, some part of him, tangled in the chaos of his heart, is overjoyed that Riku is alive.

And this time, he won’t let go.

 

 

 

“You know, Ichi, when I told you not to get in a fight with the king’s invincible guard, I didn’t mean, challenge his equally, if not _more_ invincible son to a _freaking duel.”_

Yamato’s voice is nearly lost among the crowd of the dining hall, bustling with servants and soldiers and nobles of the court alike. Beneath stained glass windows grown dim with nightfall, lines of tables covered by crisp white cloth and smooth wooden chairs stretch across the length of the hall. Surrounding the candelabras atop the tables rest plates and plates of steaming-hot dishes, the smell of roast meat and spices wafting through the air. Iori is much less focused on the food, however, more so on the two travelers who wave him over to their table.

Nagi gasps when he lays eyes on him. “ _Oh, gods_ , Iori! What happened to your lovely face? You look awful!”

Iori winces as he sits down. He raises a hand and tries to obscure the puffiness of his eyes. “It’s, um, nothing. I was just…” he racks his brain for an excuse. “...frustrated. That I had lost.”

Nagi looks at him skeptically. “Is that the truth?”

“Of course, Rokuya-san.”

“Cut him some slack, Nagi. Our Ichi’s always been a crybaby,” Yamato teases over his goblet of wine. “Yeesh, though. You really _do_ look like shit.”

“My, how _very_ kind of you.”

“Do not be rude, Yamato,” Nagi chides. “Iori, come here. Let me fix it for you.”

Nagi pulls a few tubes and bottles out of his bag, and Iori hums as he leans over the table to meet him in the middle. “So you two already know about that whole...event,” he says, as Nagi smears cream under his eyes.

“But of course, Iori!” Nagi exclaims, carefully dabbing some sort of oil on Iori’s face. “Who would not? Word travels fast in Träumerei, especially so when it is about the first personal guard approved firsthand by the mysterious Takanashi prince.”

 _Of course._ Riku is the single most popular topic for gossip in all of Träumerei, perhaps even the whole world, if Yamato and Nagi’s reports are to be believed. What did he even expect, making a move as bold as dueling the prince? Becoming his personal guard? If there’s one way to gain attention in Träumerei, it’s _that,_ firmly rooted solely beneath gluing a wooden “LOOK AT ME” sign to his head.

“Can’t say I’m _too_ surprised he did it, though. Our Ichi is a cut above the rest,” Yamato sniffles, fanning his face to dry fake tears. “Mitsu is going to be so proud.”

Nagi laughs, putting the bottles away again. “And now we can get all the gossip on the prince, directly from the source!” He leans in closer. “So, tell us, Iori, all about what the prince is like. Is he sadistic? Saintly as his sister is? I heard he set his automatons on you!”

“Come on, now, Nagi, _obviously_ the prince can’t be some sort of sadist if he’s related to Princess Tsumugi. He’s gotta be more like, you know…”

But Iori doesn’t listen to the rest. Yamato and Nagi keep firing off question after question and answering themselves with their own speculation, and though Iori _knows_ they mean well, could never _not_ mean well, quite frankly, it makes his head throb in pain.

What is the prince like? What is _Riku_ like? Well, Iori’s not so sure anymore.

When they had been children, Riku had been so, so easy to understand. Honest, clumsy, a sweet boy who loved music and singing and dancing and hated, more than anything, to be alone. When it came to Riku, what Iori saw was what he got. There was no guessing, no puzzles; Riku never _lied_ to him, just, sometimes he wouldn’t talk about things without the correct prompting. And while that was a little frustrating to work around, it had never been a problem. Riku was happy to talk to Iori about anything at all.

Now, though? Now, Riku is an unknown. Who can blame Iori for thinking so? He’d thought Riku had been dead for the past ten years. He doesn’t know this man who bears the name _Takanashi,_ the prince of Träumerei who hides the darkest of secrets beneath a bright smile. Before the news of Riku’s death, Iori had thought he and Riku would have remained the best of friends, even separated as they were. He never would have left Iori in the dark on something so important, especially not for so long.

Nanase Riku had been a lot of things, but he had never been a stranger, not to Iori.

Takanashi Riku is just that.

“Hello?” Nagi’s voice breaks Iori out from his thoughts, waving a daintily manicured hand in front of his face. “Iori? Are you there?”

“Huh?” Iori blinks, still a bit dazed.

“We lost you for a second there, Ichi,” Yamato says, furrowing his brow in concern. Iori can’t help the guilty feeling that tightens his chest when Nagi’s frown conveys the same worry. “You good?”

“Yes,” Iori says, perhaps just a moment too hastily. “I’m perfectly fine, just a little tired. His Highness was truly a formidable opponent. I’ll be alright after a hot meal and a good night’s sleep. However late those both may be,” he says, forcing a chuckle. “Honestly, I’m a bit surprised they’re still serving dinner at this late hour.”

“Mm, the quicker you become used to this schedule, Iori, the better. Late nights are simply how Träumerei operates; you will understand, once you are given the opportunity to see the nightlife here,” Nagi hums, tone cheery, but suspicion evident in the way he intensely examines Iori’s expression. Iori tries to smile, though, and Nagi smiles back tentatively, still a little wary, but ultimately relieved. “But, truly, I am glad to hear that you are alright. Mitsuki will have our heads if you broke down on our first day here.”

“You better be telling the truth, young man. Are you really going to die on us and give us death by Mitsu? After we’ve taught you so much about the big, wide world? Shared our wine and made merry with you?” Yamato says.

“I believe you said it was rum, first of all,” Iori corrects. “Secondly, I don’t remember consuming any alcohol, Nikaido-san. My Nii-san would be _terribly_ upset to find out that, being underage, I was even _offered—”_

“Alright, we get it,” Yamato says, clicking his tongue. “Sheesh. I gotta do something about Mitsu being one of my only two weaknesses, it’s gonna end with me dead for him someday.”

“What is the other one, Yamato?” Nagi asks. “Alcohol?”

“Deceiving innocents?” Iori supplies.

“Pretty women?”

“Pretty _men?”_

 _“Nagi,_ damn it,” Yamato says, stabbing a piece of sausage on his plate for emphasis. Nagi and Iori grin at each other, as Yamato glares at them both. “It’s Nagi, for crying out loud. You guys seriously think I’m so much of a hedonist that I’d be more easily swayed by a hot guy than my own best friends?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you’re not wrong.”

The three of them dissolve into laughter, Nagi smothering Yamato with a tight hug and wet kisses all over his cheek, and it makes Iori’s chest feel light and airy. He certainly understands why Mitsuki prefers the company of these two over anyone else; he can hardly imagine himself bantering this easily with anyone other than them. It’s a welcome distraction from the events of the day that weigh so heavy on his shoulders.

The rest of dinner passes by in relative piece, with Yamato and Nagi engaging in friendly conversation that Iori, though he pipes up from time to time to offer his thoughts, is quite content to merely listen to while he digests his food. The two of them shoo him off quickly to bed, though, when he starts to doze off at the table. Iori excuses himself, bidding the two goodnight, and that he’ll be sure to see them again before they return to Fontaine.

When he returns to his room, though, someone is waiting for him there.

“Ogami-san?” Iori says. Banri is standing outside in the hall, still in his full suit of armor despite it being so late. A swath of navy blue cloth hangs from his forearm. “Is something the matter?”

Banri acknowledges Iori with a nod of his head. “Iori-kun. I came to bring you this,” he says, raising the cloth and handing it to Iori. “Consider it the uniform of us personal guards.”

Iori unfolds the cloth—it’s a cloak, not unlike the one he had seen Tsumugi’s guard in, the one  hanging around Banri’s shoulders even now. The cloak seems to be made of silk, rich in texture and vibrancy, but still as light as air. To pin it closed, there is a golden clasp shaped much like Riku’s headpiece, a twelve-pointed Takanashi star with the telltale trails of a shooting star.

“It’s beautiful. Thank you, Banri-san,” Iori says, bowing deeply.

“Thank Her Highness, not me. She made all of these herself,” Banri says. “I was also hoping to talk to you one last time before I retire for the night,” he says, waving Iori closer. Banri murmurs in his ear, “It’s about the prince.”

“Oh—yes. Of course,” Iori says. He opens the door to his room and gestures for Banri to enter.

“I take it you met with His Highness after your bath,” Banri says.

Iori nods, closing the door behind him. “Yes, Ogami-san.”

“Did it not go well?”

“...Is it that obvious?”

Banri gestures to his face. “Your eyes are still a little swollen. I’m sorry for pointing it out. And for, er, ‘setting you up,’ I believe is the phrase.”

“No, it’s quite alright,” Iori says, turning his head away in embarrassment. “I was just...shocked. I certainly didn’t expect—after all this time…” Iori trails off, struggling to put his feelings to words. “Just—did you know, Ogami-san?”

Banri smiles at him sympathetically. “His Majesty told me all about your childhood here when your brother’s letter arrived. If you had not asked for the examination, he would have requested you to guard the prince himself.”

“What—but, when he said I’d be dismissed—?”

“His Majesty knew that you would pass, once His Highness saw your face,” Banri says. “Do forgive us for pressuring you like that, but we must be careful not to hint at anything to disclose His Highness’s true identity. I’m sure I don’t need to warn you not to compromise the prince’s circumstances, correct?”

“Of course. I would never even dream of it,” Iori says.

“I want to trust you, Iori-kun. I would really hate to kill you,” Banri continues, gaze turning cold. “Especially if I were to, say, intercept any _letters_ that were to reveal his identity?”

At that, Iori swallows hard. _How on earth could he know?_ There’s no reason that Banri should even have a clue about his and Mitsuki’s plans, so why…?

Regardless, Iori has to answer, so he wills his voice to even out, holds the cloak tight against his chest, and says, “Yes, Ogami-san.”

“Good, good,” Banri says, patting Iori on the shoulder. “Well, then. Off to bed with you, you deserve to get whatever rest you can. Make sure His Highness is awake tomorrow morning by the time I come to check in on you, he’s a bit of a sleepyhead, you see. Oh, and make sure he’s asleep before you get in bed; he has his fair share, of, ah, _restless_ nights, we’ll say.”

Iori nods slowly. “Y-Yes, Ogami-san.”

Banri sighs affectionately, giving Iori another smile. “Relax. It won’t be so bad, His Highness is very obviously fond of you.”

 _Fond of me?_ Iori wonders. “How do you figure?”

“You saw the gesture he made when he accepted you, right?” Banri says, raising his knuckles to his lips in an imitation of the motion Riku had made after Iori’s examination. “In Träumerei, it means ‘devotion.’”

Iori blinks. “Devotion?”

Banri nods. “That’s right. So don’t you worry, Iori-kun. His Highness is a kind child. He truly does care for you. Perhaps even more than you may believe,” he says, pausing in the doorway with a mischievous glint in his eye. “After all, that sign is one used by secret lovers.”

Iori feels the blood rush to his cheeks. “L-Love—?!”

“Goodnight, Iori-kun!” Banri says, chuckling as the door clicks behind him.

And then, Iori is alone.

Once Iori’s pulse returns to a normal rate, he exhales heavily, releasing a breath he hadn’t even known he’d been holding. Iori isn’t used to dealing with a man like Ogami Banri, whose mind works tirelessly behind his refreshing smile. He is much more perceptive than he lets on; he’s the king’s personal guard for good reason.

As for Riku...well.

Following Banri’s instructions, after hanging the cloak up in his wardrobe, Iori knocks quietly on the door that connects his and Riku’s quarters. “Nanase-san?” he asks, pushing the door open when no answer comes. His eyes travel to the bed. A lump of blanket sits square in the middle of the sheets, steadily rising and falling with Riku’s breath. If Iori listens close, he even can hear light snoring.

Riku is surely asleep, but—it wouldn’t hurt to step inside, would it? Just to make sure. Right? Right.

Iori approaches Riku’s bed with soft footsteps (made easy, with the thick layer of carpet beneath his heels), until Riku’s face comes into view. From a closer angle, Iori can see the faint outline of Riku’s form under the comforter, curled tight around a pillow he holds in his arms.

Asleep, Riku looks much like he did when they were children, smooth skin and round cheeks that he nuzzles closely to his pillow. There’s no trace of the forced smile on his face, only a peaceful expression, like he’s lost in a dream. _Like Sleeping Beauty,_ Iori thinks. _Or perhaps, Snow White._ Riku’s nose twitches once when a lock of hair slips down to his face, and Iori reaches out to brush it back in its place.

Iori’s fingertips brush against his skin, and Iori pulls his hand back with a quiet “oh,” when Riku stirs, ever so slightly.

Riku shifts under the blanket, but settles down quickly enough that Iori doesn’t worry he’s woken up. He breathes a sigh of relief when Riku’s breathing returns to normal. His hair had moved again in his motions, so Iori doesn’t bother trying again. He decides, instead, to return to his room, when Riku’s voice comes softly from beneath the covers.

“Mn…‘yori…?” he murmurs.

“Ah...yes. My apologies for waking you, Your Highness,” Iori says, turning back to Riku. He looks for Riku’s eyes, but can’t find them under the layer of blanket. Riku is quiet again for a few moments, and Iori wonders if he’d simply been talking in his sleep. “Your Highness?”

He waits another few seconds, and when Riku remains silent, he can’t help but shake his head. _Sleeping so easily, just like a child._ That much, at least, hasn’t changed since they’d been separated.

To cover what _has_ changed, though...he and Riku have much to talk about tomorrow. For now, Iori really just wants to sleep.

He’s pulled the door halfway closed when Riku speaks again.

“Missed you…”

Iori feels something inexplicably warm spread in his chest when the words register, stopping him in his tracks once again.

Through barely-moving lips, Iori whispers, “...I missed you, too.”

Thankfully, before Iori can dwell for too long on the implications of him appearing in Riku’s dreams, his body gives out the moment it hits the mattress, and he’s pulled into a dreamless sleep.

 

 

The first morning of Iori’s service as Riku’s personal guard starts off easily enough. Iori’s always been an early riser, so he’s up and out of bed while it’s still dark outside. By the time the sun has risen over the horizon, he’s freshly bathed, changed, and groomed, ready to face the working day.

Before he can, though, his last task is to wake Riku, who, as Iori discovers when he enters his room, has buried himself deep within his blankets and pillows, with only the top of his cherry-red hair peeking out above the sheets. From the side of his bed, Iori calls, “Your Highness,” quietly at first, but when Riku shows no sign of waking, he says it more firmly. “Your Highness.”

At that, the mass of fabric rustles once, but otherwise, Riku remains asleep. Iori shakes him gently, calling him again. “Please get up. It’s morning.”

Riku groans softly and wriggles out from under the sheets until his eyes come into view, blinking blearily in the morning light. “...Banri-san?”

“It’s Iori, actually,” Iori-actually says. “Good morning, Your Highness.”

“Iori?” Riku says through a yawn. Iori fights back a smile. _How cute._ “What’re you—oh, that’s right…nice cape. I like it.”

Iori laughs. “Thank you. It is my first day at your service. Please get up so we can start it off.”

Riku, still sleepy, nuzzles himself against a pillow again, and the struggle to stop the grin from spreading across Iori’s face only gets harder. “Wh’ time’s...?”

“Barely past dawn,” Iori says, glancing out the wall-wide window. “Nice and early.”

“Hmnh? Tha’s way too early,” Riku slurs, curling himself back into the blanket. “More sleep...”

Iori sighs, but doesn’t protest, not yet. He knows he’s an early bird, so it’s not _entirely_ a surprise to him that Riku isn’t quite ready to wake up himself. _“One_ hour, and then I will wake you again,” he says.

Riku doesn’t respond. Iori assumes he’s just fallen back to sleep. Briefly, Iori entertains the idea of returning to his room, or perhaps eating breakfast, but...as Riku’s personal guard, now, he may as well remain by Riku’s side.

Just—just in case. It’s a reasonable enough thought! He is certain that Banri hardly leaves the King’s side, anyhow, so he is merely following the example.

(He’s not certain, actually, but it’s _likely._ And—perhaps he can count it as a head start on training.)

Waiting for Riku to have his extra sleep, Iori wanders across the room, taking in the sights of Riku’s quarters. The most eye-catching feature is, of course, the flower-garland drapery that hangs before the front door, but behind the partition, the bedroom is just as lavish as you’d expect a young prince’s personal space to be. Riku certainly is spoiled, Iori thinks, as he sweeps his gaze across the room.

He hadn’t been aware of it last night, but Riku’s room is quite noticeably larger than Iori’s. Riku’s room has the space not only for his wooden wardrobe, but for a vanity, shoe cabinet, and separate dresser, as well. Against the wall, beside his writing desk, is larger, glass-doored cabinet full of leather-bound books of every size and thickness. His bed, too, is larger than Iori’s own, Riku appearing to be swimming among a sea of silken red sheets and fluffy white pillows. Hanging high above his head is a crystal chandelier that catches the light and scatters tiny rainbows across the ceiling.

Opposite from the door to Iori’s room is another door, white with gold trim, that Iori assumes must lead to the prince’s bathroom. Much like Iori’s own room, the wall facing the outside of the palace is almost entirely glass, though thick white curtains have been drawn across the majority of the span. The pale rays of sunrise seep through the parts, giving the entire space, all ivory white and wine red and glimmering gold, a heavenly glow.

 _Heavenly is right_ , Iori thinks, as he returns to Riku’s form. _A divine dwelling, fit for an angel like—_

Iori clears his throat, shaking himself from his own train of thought. He has no idea why his mind decided to follow _that_ line of thought, of all things; perhaps he, too, needs an extra hour of sleep?

He checks the position of the sun once more. Not high, not at all. He yawns, stretching his spine and rolling out a particular tightness in his shoulder. His eyes feel a little bleary, too; perhaps he _had_ woken just a tad too early. A few minutes to just rest his eyes sounds incredibly tempting, especially with Riku himself sleeping so soundly less than a meter away.

Deciding to indulge himself, Iori drops himself into a plush chaise lounge seated by the window, in front of a low table. The fabric of the lounge is down-soft and luxurious, and Iori has to resist the urge to moan as his body sinks into it. Iori _is_ keen on starting the day on time, believe it, but recovering from the strain of his and Riku’s duel the previous evening will take more than just a few meager hours of sleep.

Gods. Was that really only yesterday?

His body relaxes gratefully when he finally closes his heavy eyes. This is fine, isn’t it? Just a few minutes to rest, so he can be at maximum possible efficiency for the day.

Just a few minutes.

...was his plan.

Iori’s body snaps awake when a ray of sunlight shines right over his eyelids. “What...?” He looks out the window again. The sun has risen high in the sky, gold and warm and—

“Your Highness! It’s late!” Iori exclaims, rushing back to Riku’s side and shaking his shoulder. “Wake up, you fell asleep again!”

Riku bats his hand away, but Iori persists. After a few particularly rough shakes, Riku whines, “Not yet, more sleep…”

“No more sleep!” Iori says, tugging the blanket down.

Riku yelps at the loss. “What the—?”

“Your Highness, it’s far past dawn! Wake up, Ogami-san will be here any moment now, you need to get dressed!”

“What?” Riku says, sitting up in bed, still holding onto his pillow by the corner. “What time is it?”

“A few hours after dawn,” Iori says. “Maybe nine hours past midnight, but if we hurry we might still be ready by the time Ogami-san arrives.”

But instead of getting up, as Iori would _very much like him to do,_ Riku merely falls backwards back onto his mattress, pressing his pillow close against his chest. “Nine hours past! And here I thought you said it was late!”

Iori can only stare at him in disbelief. “Nine hours past _is_ late, Your Highness, what on earth are you—”

Suddenly, Nagi’s words replay in his head. Late nights, late schedule, _simply how Träumerei operates._

Iori drags a palm over his face. _I messed up._

He hears Riku giggle from the bed, eyes peeking out over the pillow. “You see? It’s still early. So,” he reaches for the blanket and pulls it over himself again. “More sleep.”

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Iori says, jerking the blanket back down the bed, despite Riku’s noisy protest. “You’re a _prince_ , you have responsibilities. Get up and start them.”

“You’re not the boss of me, _I’m_ the boss of _you,_ ” Riku grumbles. “And I want to sleep more!”

Annoyed, Iori clicks his tongue, and walks towards Riku’s wardrobe, throwing the doors open and rifling through the clothes. “I am your _guard_ , not your personal attendant. But if I have to dress you myself to get you out of bed, then so be it.”

Iori vaguely registers the sound of rustling from Riku’s bed, but it’s overshadowed by another noise—this one high-pitched and metallic, like bells. He hears it again when he moves a baby-blue ensemble across the wardrobe. _From inside?_

Shuffling through the hangers to chase after the sound, Iori follows it to the very end of Riku’s clothes. His fingers feel metal discs, the cause of the sound, definitely, and fabric both impossibly soft and impossibly thin. Interest piqued, Iori moves more clothes to take a better look, and he sees a flash of red and gold—before the wardrobe doors close on their own with a _SLAM!_

“What the—?!” Iori sputters, flinching back to avoid getting his fingers caught. _Magic?_

He whirls around, and Riku’s sitting up in bed again, arm outstretched. His chest heaves slightly, panting as though he’s winded, worry wrinkling in his brow.

As though suddenly made aware of how suspicious he looks, Riku coughs and flushes red. “I-I’m up.”

Iori stares, stunned, at Riku’s flustered state. “Your Highness?”

“I’ll get dressed,” Riku says, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and approaching Iori in his dressing corner. “Could you just, um...just bring me my boots and gloves? The white ones.”

Iori nods. “Right…”

“Thank you,” Riku says, smiling at him in an all-too-obvious attempt at getting him to ignore _whatever it was_ that just happened with him moments ago.

But, time is ticking away, after all. So Iori will play along with the game.

“The gloves are in the dresser,” Riku says, once Iori has fetched the white boots from the shoe cabinet. He’s put on the same blue outfit Iori had seen in the wardrobe, just as form fitting as the white clothes Iori had first seen him in.

Iori hums in acknowledgement and plucks the silk gloves from the collection that lay in the top drawer of the dresser. He hands them to Riku with a “Here you are, Your Highness.”

Over the long sleeved shirt and white pants, Riku’s fastened an embroidered cornflower blue vest that tightly hugs his chest and waist and flows down around his thighs. He takes the gloves with another thank you, trying and failing to smooth down his cowlicks once he’s pulled them on.

“Does anyone even see your hair?” Iori wonders out loud.

Riku takes a seat at the vanity and runs a fine comb through his hair. “If I don’t control it, the veil hangs weird,” he says. He reaches for a sheer cloth that hangs over the top of the mirror, pulling it over his head and fastening it in place with the same golden headpiece at the side.

“There,” he says, satisfied with his work. “Now we match!”

“Wait,” Iori says. “Is that the veil you’ll be using today?”

Riku turns to him curiously, wide eyes blinking up at him. “I only have the one, though?”

“But I can see your face through it,” Iori says.

“Oh! That’s the enchantment,” Riku replies. “Since you know my secret, it doesn’t affect you, and you can see and hear me through it just like you would with a normal veil. It’s why Tsumugi and Banri-san can understand me in front of others.”

An enchantment, of course. How else could Riku so securely hide his identity from the rest of the world without his rumored _monstrous_ magic power? Iori feels a little foolish that he hadn’t thought of it before.

To be fair, he’s had more pressing matters on his mind; Iori’s been far less concerned with _how_ and more so with the fact that he _does_.

“Your Highness,” Iori starts.

Before he can finish, though, Riku sighs. “I hate that you have to call me that, you know. If I could, I’d have you call me by name again,” He turns towards Iori with an amused smile. “Though it’s fine if it’s in this room, like you did last night.”

Iori winces. “My apologies, Your Highness. Last night, I...it was a lapse of judgement.”

“I’m not mad, Iori,” Riku says. “It was nice to be referred to with my name after so long. And you’ve always been more careful about everything than me, so I’m sure it won’t happen again.”

“About last night, actually,” Iori tries again. “I...you said we could talk about it.”

“And we will,” Riku says, taking Iori’s hand. “Soon. Not now, but soon.”

 _Soon._ Riku had said something similar last night, too. Iori opens his mouth to insist, but then Riku raises Iori’s hand to his lips and kisses his knuckle again.

 _Devotion,_ Banri’s voice echoes. _A sign used by lovers._

“Your Highness,” Banri calls from outside, knocking on the door and making Iori jump. “Are you awake?”

Riku turns towards the door. “Oh! Yes, Banri-san, you can come in!”

While Iori is regaining his composure, he hears Banri step through the door. “Your Highness, the curtain.”

“Ah, I’m sorry,” Riku says. With a wave of his hand, the floral garlands part, allowing Banri to enter Riku’s room, once again in full armor, and pushing a cart with a handful of covered platters on it.

“Good morning, Your Highness, Iori-kun,” he says, bowing. “You’re certainly up early. Here I thought I would have to show Iori-kun how to wake you.”

Riku laughs. “Thank you for always bringing me breakfast, Banri-san. Pancakes energize me.”

“As I know so well,” Banri says. He brings the cart closer to the vanity, setting three plates on its surface. “No pancakes this morning, unfortunately, but I hope these ham and eggs will suffice His Highness’ appetite.”

Banri lifts the cover, the savory scent of the promised breakfast filling the air immediately. Riku’s face brightens up. “Thank you, Banri-san!”

“Eat up,” Banri says, as Riku folds back his veil so it doesn’t cover his face. Just as Iori’s mouth begins to water, Banri gestures to the remaining plates on the cart. “You, too. I heard the kitchen staff chattering about how they hadn’t seen you yet, so I brought you your breakfast, as well.”

“Oh,” Iori says, a little touched. He removes the cover and finds two fried eggs, similar to Riku’s breakfast, though his plate has replaced the cut ham with strips of bacon. “Thank you very much, Ogami-san.”

Banri shakes his head. “There’s no need for any thanks. But I’ll be expecting you to be bringing His Highness his breakfast from now on, Iori-kun. As well as eating your own on time, so you two have maximum time to complete your daily duties.”

“Yes, sir,” Iori nods as he runs his knife across the eggs. “Er, though, if I may ask, what exactly _are_ my daily duties?”

“Aside from following me around, you mean?” Riku says, wiping at his mouth with a napkin.

“Not much else,” Banri answers with a shrug. “I suppose in your special case, you’ll be communicating in His Highness’ place, but our duties should be relatively identical. As a guard, I expect you to train both your magic and your body as often as you can, though for the most part, you’ll remain at His Highness’ side unless he sends you elsewhere, but even then, you should return to him promptly. Speaking of which, I should be going back to His Majesty right now.”

“Oh, wait!” Riku says. He rises from the vanity chair and walks to his desk, shuffling through some papers until he picks up an envelope with a deep purple seal. “Yamashita-san accidentally left a letter addressed to Takanashi-sama in my mail, could you bring it to him? It looks important.”

“Certainly,” Banri says, pocketing the envelope when Riku hands it to him. “I’ll be on my way now, then. Your Highness, get along with Iori-kun. Don’t run him too ragged on his first day.”

Riku laughs again. “Yes, sir!”

“And Iori-kun,” Banri says, ever-present refreshing smile on his face. “Good luck. I know you’ll do just fine.

 

 

  
Iori takes to the job like a fish to water, accompanying Riku as he makes his way around the palace. Of course, he credits much of his adaptability to the task to the fact that he, himself, is a prince, and as such is familiar with most of Riku’s duties, but that doesn’t erase the fact that Riku starts to rely on his skill very quickly. He starts seeking out advice from Iori, asking for his input on many of the staff’s questions and concerns, be it on how to solve a trade route dispute or what sort of routine the palace dancers must learn for upcoming events, and Iori answers as best as he can with all the knowledge he’s gathered from his 17 years as the famed Tactician Prince.

When he credits his answers to Riku, however, the staff members look at him in disbelief, and Riku even bats him on the arm.

“That was your solution,” he says, pouting underneath the cloth. “Not mine. I’m not nearly as smart as you, and it shows, so take credit where it’s due, stupid Iori.”

“Am I smart, or am I stupid?” Iori banters back.

“You know what I mean!” Riku says, flicking Iori between the eyes and ignoring his _Ow!_ “Don’t be difficult!”

“Excuse me, _Your Highness,”_ Iori hisses, rubbing at the bridge of his nose to ease the pain. “But just who was it again who had to be woken up three times this morning before finally rolling out of bed?”

“My goodness!” the royal tactician, a burly, affable older man who had been serving Träumerei's royalty for nearly twenty years by the name of Douglas, responds to their bickering with booming laughter. “The mouth on the little Izumi prince! Even just hearing his side alone, you two act just like a married couple. I wish I could understand His Highness the way you do, boy.”

Iori’s about to react to Douglas’s _married couple_ comment when he sees Riku’s shoulders slump beside him, his whole posture deflating as a wistful half-smile makes its way across Riku’s face. “I wish you could understand me, too, Mister Douglas.”

And it hits Iori, then, that although only a small number of the palace residents know who Riku is, that doesn’t mean that _Riku_ doesn’t know who _they_ are. He’s always been a lonely person, as Iori can recall. Always confined to that little room that faced the sunset, always waiting for his precious Tenn-nii or Iori or either of his beloved parents or, really, anyone at all to pay him a visit. Loved and spoiled by family and staff alike, Riku had befriended anyone and everyone who had entered that room; even the doctors who treated him. Even his father’s right-hand man, the royal tactician.

The only people who had been pronounced dead in the wake of the Hawke attack had been the members of the Nanase family, after all.

Even so, though his identity is well-hidden behind his enchanted veil, it’s obvious that Riku is still very much adored by more of his palace staff than simply Douglas. When they pass through the kitchen, the head chef, a strong and silent sort of man named Kamio, claps him hard on the back in greeting (with such force that Riku, to Iori’s slight panic, nearly has a coughing fit) before he presents him with rows and rows of little dishes that he intends to send up to Riku’s room in the afternoon for the first sampling of his latest recipes.

Riku has Iori ask what sorts of dishes he plans to make, and Kamio, with warmth in his eyes as he faces Riku, answers “Donuts, pancakes, other sweets that you like, Your Highness. For my daughter’s stall at the night festival.”

“Kamio-san really loves his daughter, doesn’t he,” Riku says, returning Kamio’s expression with a kindness of his own. Though Kamio can’t see it, Iori can, perfectly clear, and he feels heat creeping up his neck at the same gentle, lovely smile that had seized him by the heart all those years ago.

“If there’s any one you like in particular, I will gladly ask her to remove it from the menu so you may enjoy it exclusively,” Kamio says.

“Iori,” he says. Iori hopes Riku doesn’t notice the way he jumps at the sound of his name, fearful that he’d been caught staring. “Could you tell Kamio-san that there’s no need for that? Why should I hoard her sweets? They should be shared with everyone! If I like something, tell him I’ll buy it out so that his daughter can give them away for free.”

It’s such a sugar-sweet sentiment that Iori’s heart melts, just a little; Riku has always been endearing, but he had forgotten just how much someone could come to love him, with his innocent joy in making anyone’s day.

“His Highness says not to remove anything from the menu. If he likes something, then he would like to pay for the whole inventory of it, so that she may share them free of charge for the rest of the citizens to enjoy it, too,” Iori pauses. “...as well as,” he continues, ignoring the strange look Riku shoots him in that moment. “A horse and cart, so your daughter may deliver her wares all across the festival.”

“Iori, what—”

“Your Highness,” Kamio says, sinking to his knees. Riku squeaks at the sudden prostration. “Thank you, truly. You are too kind; I have no way to express how indebted I am to you.”

Iori hides a chuckle behind his hand as Riku stutters over rejections and frantically gestures for Kamio to stand back up, but he freezes when Kamio raises his head. There is nothing but pure, genuine gratitude and kindness where his smile reaches to deep-set laugh lines, and both Iori and Riku are stunned speechless by the affection in his expression that lingers, even when Kamio excuses himself to return to cooking.

Riku breaks the silence first, once they’ve left the kitchen and are on their way to their next stop. “That’s _my_ money you’re spending, you know.”

Iori groans in acknowledgement. “I know. And that was foolish of me to even suggest, but I intend to repay the sum using my own funds. My apologies—”

“Apologies?” Riku says, cocking his head. “For what?”

Iori blinks. “For—for wasting your money, of course.”

“I never said you were wasting my money,” Riku says. “Did you see the look on Kamio-san’s face? If I knew spending a little more money was all it took to make him that happy, I would have done so long ago,” he says, smiling up at Iori. “You’re still as kind as ever, Iori. You make a fine prince.”

“Kind,” Iori echoes with a scoff, remembering his reputation as the cold, calculating Tactician Prince. “When have I ever been kind?”

“‘I’m sorry for not telling you I was leaving, Nanase-san,’” Riku says in a high voice. The blood rushes to Iori’s cheeks full force when he realizes what Riku is saying. “‘I didn’t want to see you sad, Nanase-san!’”

 _”Please_ forget about that,” Iori begs, hiding his burning blush behind his hands.

Riku laughs. “How could I ever forget anything about you, Iori?”

Iori’s heart stutters. He wonders how much a person can blush before they overheat and faint.

Later in the day, they stop at the training hall, currently in use, with soldiers paired up into several sparring matches at once. Even from a distance, Iori can tell that all of them have had their skills well-honed, from a ponytailed woman swinging around a wooden broadsword as if it were air, to a small but lightning-fast man getting in countless jabs at his sparring partner’s abdomen. They all wear the same standard-issue brown pants and loose, lace-up shirts embroidered with a golden Takanashi star over their left breast.

Riku approaches a pair of men sparring with bandaged fists, both of which pause their match immediately and bow to him once they realize he’s there. From the emblem on their chests, Iori notices that, unlike some of the other sparring knights, these two each have a thin gold chain that dangles across the star.

“Your Highness,” One of them, with jet black hair and mismatched green and brown eyes, speaks to him in a rough, boyish voice. “Making the rounds, I see. Up for a match? I’ll even let you use your magic on me this time.”

 _Idiot,_ Iori thinks, remembering his own duel with Riku. _You’d be killed._

“No, thank you,” Riku says cheerfully, shaking his head vigorously under the veil and motioning at his upper arms. “I’m still sore from last time. I just came here to introduce you both to Iori here.”

“Who’s the pet?” His companion, an albino with long, bone-white hair tied up in a high ponytail, asks, jerking his chin at Iori.

Iori’s mood threatens to sour, but he bites his tongue before he can say anything he might regret. “Please don’t call me a pet,” he says before relaying Riku’s message. “My name is Izumi Iori, second prince of Fontaine, and His Highness’s new personal guard. It’s a pleasure to meet you both,” he says, extending his hand.

“Oh, we’ve heard of you,” The first man says, shaking Iori’s hand and giving him a once-over. Subconsciously, Iori straightens up under his gaze. “You’re the one who gave His Highness a run for his money yesterday.”

“I had it under control,” Riku grumbles. Iori refrains from calling him cute.

“The name’s Kimura,” the man continues. “And this guy’s Asanuma. We’re part of His Highness’s royal guard,” he says, pointing to the chain on his emblem before bowing at the waist. “We’re your subordinates.”

Asanuma scoffs. “Like I’m gonna listen to some newbie who got his ass handed to him on a silver fucking platter,” Kimura elbows him _hard_ in the ribs, causing Asanuma to double over in pain with an irritated growl, an admittedly rather hilarious way to get him to bow. “Rude-ass _brat—”_

“Ignore him,” Kimura says, as Riku frets over Asanuma, lifting his shirt to check for bruising. “Take good care of us, Izumi-san.”

“Likewise. Take good care of me as well,” Iori replies. “You _are_ my seniors, technically. I’ll be in your care.”

“Well, well,” Kimura smiles lopsidedly, his brown eye crinkling a little more than his green. “So well-mannered. Guess that’s expected, from a royal.”

Asanuma returns to a stand with a grunt. “Royal _pain_ , more like,” He leans in closer to Iori, raising his chin forcefully with his thumb and forefinger. “What the hell, the kid’s fuckin’ _spotless_. Never even stepped foot on a battlefield, have you? Ugh. Royals,” Before Iori can respond, Asanuma releases him and claps him rather harshly on the shoulder. “Whatever. You’ll be roughened up soon enough. His Highness will make sure of that,” he says, patting Riku’s head.

“Excuse me?” Riku says, puffing up his cheeks and trying (and failing) to remove Asanuma’s hand from the top of his head. _Cute, so cute._ “I’m right here, Asanuma-san!”

There’s a certain tone Asanuma takes when he says _His Highness,_ exasperation mixed with a layer of fondness, as though chastising a child. Despite himself, Iori smiles. He’d already experienced the pull of Riku’s magnetic charm, even through the veil, but it satisfies the part of him that still loves Riku to know that he’s beloved by others as well.

Wait. Um. The—

The part of him that still loves Riku, as childhood friends.

That’s all.

Kimura rolls his eyes. “Don’t let ‘im get to you, we both know you’re a cut above the rest of the newbies. When it comes to Asanuma, he wouldn’t be jeering at you like that if he didn’t know just how strong you were,” He smiles knowingly at Iori. A bit of pride tugs at Iori’s chest, being recognized by a superior. It makes him smile back, ever so slightly. “He picks on all the fresh blood, and he’s especially rude to the promising ones. It’s just his way of saying he loves you— _ow!”_

Asanuma sneers and kicks Kimura in the ankle. “Watch your mouth, brat. I can still make you run extra laps ‘round the gardens.”

“You used to treat me so kindly,” Kimura grumbles. “We’ll catch you later, Izumi. Treat our prince nicely. He likes you already, I can tell.”

Iori clears his throat, hoping he can blame the red of his cheeks on bashfulness, not embarrassment. “Yes, of course. Please enjoy the rest of your training, Kimura-san. Asanuma-san.”

As Kimura and Asanuma resume sparring, Riku sighs happily at his side. “Watching them kind of makes me want to train, too.”

“Well,” Iori says. “Then why don’t you?”

“Ooh, Iori, are you challenging me to another duel?” Riku says, sing-song. “I won’t go easy on you just because you’ve already lost, you know!”

Iori rolls his eyes. “I must respectfully decline, Your Highness. But,” he says, something childish arising in him at Riku’s teasing. “I _will_ bet that I am far more accurate with a bow than you.”

Riku bounces on the balls of his feet in delight at Iori’s push-back, saying “No way you are! I’ll go set up!” before running off towards the relatively empty end of the training hall, using his magic to place several targets in a row.

“Would you look who it is,” a voice spits, shocking Iori out of the relative contentedness of his time with Riku so far. Iori scans the room and traces the voice back to one of the training guards, raking his eyes over Riku’s form while his back is turned to him and his companion. “So the pretty princess came out to play.”

“Gods, I can’t stand him. He gives me the creeps,” His partner hisses back. “The fuck does he need the rag for? Are we of the common class too unworthy to bear His Royal Highness’s _esteemed_ visage?”

“Hey, he’s prob’ly doing us a favor, hiding his ugly mug. You know what they’re callin’ him, monster who eats hearts, whatever-whatever. Heard he was cursed by some noble coming onto him he pissed off.”

 _“Ha!_ I’d believe it. That’s the thing about highborn bastards; if they can’t play with the toys they want, they break ‘em.”

Iori has half a mind to walk over there and rend the two men himself, disgusted with the audacity to be so cruel while their subject is mere meters away. _This_ is the way they talk about their prince? _His_ prince, his Riku? If he was any worse of a person, Iori would have their heads where they stood, for daring to talk about Riku that way, but as it stands, Iori _is_ at least half-decent, morally, so he will have to make do with turning his back to their jeers, hoping Riku hasn’t heard them, and, if he has, hoping that he ignores them.

But that doesn’t stop them from continuing,

“Ugh, and there he is, the prince’s new plaything himself,” one of them sneers, as Iori passes them to approach Riku, who has finished selecting a bow and quiver for himself and now tests it in his hands. “Aren’t Fontinians supposed to be humble? What’s up his ass?”

“That’s royalty for you. But you know, if you look at him...he doesn’t look Fontinian at all.”

“They _do_ border the Empire. I wouldn’t be surprised if the son of a bitch was a Hawke himself.”

“So that’s how he measured up to the Monster’s magic. He’s one of those Hawke abominations they’ve been talking about.”

“He’s got balls, then, a Hawke like him setting foot in Träumerei. A monster and a monster. A match made in—”

Before the man can even wrap his lips around the next word, an arrow whizzes between him and his companion, mere centimeters away from their noses. Not nearly close enough to even nick them, but certainly enough to be a threat. They both jerk away from the arrow (moments too late; if it’d been traveling in the path to strike, they’d be dead), and balk when they follow its source.

From the far end of the hall, Riku is still in a flawless shooting stance—hand still held gracefully in the air after the release of the arrow.

“Apologize,” Riku says, voice low, ice-cold. A chill runs down Iori’s spine when he sees the look in Riku’s eyes: raw. Ruthless. A monster of a prince.

This is _not_ the same boy he had mourned.

Through the enchantment of his veil, the guards can’t hear what Riku says, but that doesn’t stop him. With a flick of his wrist, he brings them both to their knees, shaking like newborn fawn. “W-We’re sorry, Your Highness—”

“Not to _me,”_ Riku says, jerking them around until they face Iori. “To him.”

“We’re sorry,” They say in unison. “We’re sorry, Izumi-san.”

With a satisfied hum, Riku snaps his fingers, and the two soldiers fall onto the ground, still trembling. “That’s better. Iori, get Kimura-san. Oh, and don’t bother picking out a bow. I’ve had enough archery for today.”

Unfreezing from where Riku’s voice had turned him stone-still, Iori nods, calling Kimura over to the other side of the hall. While he gives the two a brutal tongue-lashing (and Asanuma threatens to “rough them up good” before they’re stripped of their uniforms and thrown out of the forces), Riku steps out into the hall, Iori following him close.

It isn’t until they’re far enough away that the sound of Kimura’s voice has faded to nothing that Riku breaks the character, crumpling into himself with a heavy exhale. “Jeez! That was _terrifying!”_

The change is so sudden that Iori practically gets whiplash. “P-Pardon?”

“I never want to do that again, that was _so_ stupid, my heart is racing,” Riku says, trying to even out his breath. “But, gods, did you hear the things they were saying? Ridiculous. If they’re going to gossip about me like that, I wish they’d at least use the rumors that make _some_ sense.”

“What? Wait,” Iori says. “This has happened before?”

Riku looks at him as though he’s grown a second head. “Of course it has. Wearing a veil everywhere only leads to people speculating what’s underneath, after all. I bet you’ve heard rumors about me, too,” he says. Iori looks away shamefully, recalling the journey to Träumerei Riku just laughs. “There, you see? Happens all the time. I don’t like it, but it’s not like I can really blame them, so I usually just ignore it.”

“I...see,” Iori says, staring back at Riku, the usual bounce returned to his step as they return to their quarters, as if he’d never done anything different. “Then why do something now?”

“It’s one thing to insult me,” Riku says, shrugging. “It’s another thing entirely to insult _you._ You might be my guard now, but you’re still a guest here. And besides,” he looks up at Iori with a sweet smile, the one that make something in Iori’s chest flutter. “You’re special to me, Iori. I won’t let them talk about someone I love that way.”

“Someone you—?”

“Your Highness,” a voice says. Tsumugi’s guard approaches the two of them, turning the corner at the end of the hall before Iori can finish. “His Majesty requests you in his study.”

“Takanashi-sama does? Why me?” Riku asks.

“Both of you,” she says. “Her Highness is already with him, they only await you. It concerns the whole royal family, Your Highness,” she leans in closer to the two of them, eyes darting to check for any undesired ears. “News from Esmeralda.”

“The letter,” Riku mutters back. “I understand. Thank you, Akane-san. Iori, let’s go.”

“Me?” Iori asks. “Am I allowed?”

“Not inside, but you still need to come. We need you to join Banri-san and Akane-san in standing guard. And,” Riku says, smiling at him again—this one less dazzling, more apologetic. “I’ll feel safer, knowing you’re there.”

Iori’s heart skips a beat. “I—Yes, Your Highness.”

“Thank you,” Riku says, warm, grateful. He turns back to Tsumugi’s guard. “Akane-san, please lead the way.”

Akane nods, grim, before setting off in the direction of the King’s study. She leads them to the study, a room enclosed by two massive white doors that dwarf even Banri’s tall stature as he guards them. Riku thanks Akane for the guidance, and Banri, too, for opening the door for him before he disappears inside.

It is Akane who speaks first after that, extending a hand in Iori’s direction. “We have yet to officially introduce ourselves, Izumi. I am Akane Yuzuki. I am Her Highness’s personal guard.” Akane is as stony-faced as she had been when Iori had first seen her before the examination, though out of her armor and with her red hair down instead of pulled tight, she looks significantly more approachable.

“It’s nice to finally meet you, then,” Iori replies, shaking her hand once before she draws it back. “Izumi Iori. Although, you knew that already, Akane-san.”

“The cloak looks nice on you, Iori-kun,” Banri says. “It suits you.”

Akane tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. “My lady’s handiwork is as lovely as ever.”

“Yes, yes,” Banri chuckles. “We all know how proud you are of Her Highness.”

“Always, Ogami,” Akane says.

 _Akane-san is quite close to Her Highness,_ Iori thinks. _‘My lady.’_ It’s not normally how the knights in Fontaine and Träumerei address their lieges; he’d only heard it before from Banri, addressing the king as _my lord_. Perhaps it’s exclusive to personal guards.

“But Iori-kun,” Banri starts again, “How is your first day so far?”

The three of them fall into a steady stream of conversation from that point forward, Iori reporting what he had seen while shadowing Riku. Akane, for all her stoicism, listens attentively when Iori mentions the sweets Kamio plans on baking. When he moves on to meeting Kimura and Asanuma, witnessing their bickering, Banri merely shakes his head, much like a tired parent. The whole population of the palace is tightly woven, like a family, Iori learns, when Akane and Banri start listing off other kind folk that Iori is likely to run into during his time as Riku’s guard.

Iori avoids mentioning the two gossips in the training hall.

He doesn’t mention how Riku had called him _someone he loves._

Iori doesn’t realize how much time they spend chatting, but the sun is setting by the time the study doors fly open, nearly smacking him right in the face. A blur of blue runs out from the office into the hall, and, instinctively, Iori catches it by the hand. “Your Highness?”

Riku hiccups, head bowed. He harshly tugs his hand away, wiping it across his face, under his veil. When he raises his head to look at Iori, his eyes are wet with tears.

“What on earth—”

“Brother!” Tsumugi calls, stepping into the hall. “Brother, please, your lungs—”

“I’m okay,” Riku says, even though he coughs to clear the thickness that covers his voice. “I just—I need to think.”

“My son,” King Otoharu says, standing in the doorway. “Perhaps you should go back to your room and rest. You do not look well.”

Riku shakes his head. “I’m fine,” he insists. “Just—please? I need to be alone right now.”

Tsumugi reaches out towards Riku, mouth open, trying to figure out the correct words to say, but King Otoharu rests his hand on her shoulder. She looks at her father, then to her brother, before she presses her lips together and nods in understanding.

Riku nods back with a “Thank you,” sniffing once before he starts walking down the hallway. “Iori,” he calls.

“Ah—yes,” Iori says. Riku starts down the hall, and, after a quick bow to the princess and king, Iori follows.

 

 

 

The entire walk is taken in tense silence, only the sounds of Riku’s sniffles and their two sets of footsteps against the marble permeating the air. A thousand questions cross Iori’s mind— _What happened? Why are you crying? Can I make it any better?—_ but he doesn’t dare say any of them, not when he can tell Riku is using all his strength to keep his emotions inside.

 _I wish you wouldn’t,_ Iori thinks, glancing at Riku’s face. _It’s not like you, to hide the way you feel._

Iori follows Riku all the way across the palace to the atrium, as eerily still and pale as Iori’s first impression of it. Riku, however, seems to pay its atmosphere no mind. He continues his stride until he reaches the tile platform above the pool, where he collapses to the ground.

Iori remains just outside the atrium, unsure whether or not he should approach his prince. Riku might have said he wanted alone time, but the words pique suspicion in Iori’s mind. He doubts that Riku, the boy trapped in a flower-laden room, who yearned for company more than anything else, truly wants to be left alone, but…

As if reading Iori’s mind, Riku speaks again. _“Iori,”_ he says, weakly. _“Don’t go.”_

So he doesn’t.

Riku clings tight to Iori the moment he crouches down next to him, burying his face in Iori’s shoulder and crying with deep, heaving sobs. They shudder through him so strongly that he almost seems to choke on some of them, raising panic in Iori when he hears the breath get caught in Riku’s throat, but Riku doesn’t let go.

It’s a gamble he takes when he starts whispering, “It’s okay,” in Riku’s ear, rubbing calming circles against his back, “It’ll be alright, Your Highness.”

“Nana— _hic—_ se-san,” Riku whispers back.

“What’s that…?”

“Cast an—illusion—spell,” Riku’s words are punctuated with stuttering breaths. “Want you to—call me—by name.”

“Oh,” Iori says. He shifts against Riku to trace his finger against the tile, outlining an emblem to disguise the atrium as empty. Once he activates it, he pulls Riku tighter, murmuring “Nanase-san, I’m here. I’m here, it’s okay, Nanase-san.”

They stay like that for a long while, and by the time Riku’s shoulders stop shaking, it’s nightfall. At some point, Iori had pulled Riku up from the floor and moved them both to one of the benches, Riku’s head resting on his shoulder as Iori runs his hand through Riku’s hair. Riku is a warm and comfortable weight at his side, and he hopes that _something_ he had done had contributed to Riku eventually calming down, now humming a sad and soulful tune that tugs at Iori’s heartstrings. The flowers in the atrium seem to stretch ever so slightly towards them as Riku sings, as if they, too, had longed to hear Riku’s voice. He wonders if it’s on purpose, being where they are—a requiem, for the family he had lost.  

He’s still endlessly curious, but Riku speaks before he even decides on what to ask first.

“That night,” Riku says, his voice quiet and strained from the hours of crying. “My parents had been summoned to one of the palace gates by some of my father’s guard.

“They had entered his company years ago, before Tenn-nii and I could even walk. They had excellent handling of a sword, and overwhelming power, so they passed easily. And they swore their loyalties to my father without a second thought. He loved them, trusted them like he did all his men, as if he had known them all his life. So he didn’t bat an eye when they told him they had spotted travelers who had made it to the capital, looking for a place to stay.

“Of course, there were no travelers. Only Hawke soldiers, positioned to ambush my parents and kill them on sight. I could see them from my window, in my old room, and I tried to warn my parents using the flower garlands, but they were already out of my range. So I called my brother, instead.

“I begged Tenn-nii to run after them, to stop mom and dad from going to the gates. And he said yes, _promised_ he would, but before he could even step foot outside my door, these two—there, there were—” Here Riku coughs again, and Iori steadies him with an arm around his shoulder.

“Don’t force yourself,” says, running his hand up and down Riku’s side. “You don’t need to tell me now, if you’re not ready.”

“You deserve to know,” Riku says. “You’re special to me, Iori. Remember that.”

Iori doesn’t say anything in reply.

Riku continues. “Two men broke into my room. They attacked me and Tenn-nii, and he tried to fight back using his charm magic, but they had a protection spell on them that was stronger than any of Tenn-nii’s spells. Tenn-nii tried his best, but they still overwhelmed him, eventually.

“One of them started choking him, right in front of me. I was frozen in place from the fear, but I couldn’t bear to see my brother like that, so I—I lost control of my magic. The garlands on the wall, they sprung to life, grabbing the men’s wrists and pulling them away from Tenn-nii; they let him go, but they also dropped their lantern. That must have been what started the fire. Tenn-nii took my hand and took me out of the room, and we started running away.

“But the fire wasn’t helping us at all; between the smoke and the heat, my lungs gave out, and I started having an attack before we made it out of the palace. Tenn-nii was trying to tell me it’d be okay, that he’d carry me out if he had to, but, then—

“...then the same two men showed up.I don’t know how they broke free from the vines; maybe the fire burned them up. But they had caught up to us, and while I was laying there unable to move, they took Tenn-nii and attacked him again. Can you believe them?” Riku breathes out in a fake laugh. “Attacking a child like that. They even hit him in the head. Tenn-nii fell unconscious, and before I even had the chance to gather up my strength to move towards him, one of the columns gave way and fell in between us. And the men ran away, while the wing was burning.

“I even remember what they said, leaving us like that,” Riku says, smiling without even the slightest hint of humor. “‘Leave them there. They won’t recover in time to escape. _Let the freaks burn.’”_

Iori swallows hard, blood running cold. What an absolutely cruel thing to say—and to a mere _child_ , no less. He squeezes Riku’s shoulder once, trying to convey as much sympathy as he can in that one simple motion. “But,” Iori says. “You did escape.”

Riku nods. “That’s right. Tsumugi and Takanashi-sama were checking the wing for anyone who hadn’t evacuated yet; I’m lucky they were. If they had even been a moment later, I’m sure I would have died there, too. Takanashi-sama carried me on his back, and the three of us fled outside.

“I tried to tell him—tried to get them to save Tenn-nii, too. I did. I told them to go back and get him, and Takanashi-sama almost _did,_ but then—the whole wing collapsed,” Riku says. “Before our very own eyes. They said Tenn-nii was dead. They said we were all dead, but,” he sighs. “As you can see, that’s not true.”

“...so that’s why you hid,” Iori says. “It wasn’t just a coincidence that there were no other casualties.”

“That’s right. It was a direct attack on the Nanase royal family,” Riku says. “That’s why I agreed to let Takanashi-sama protect me. If Hawke finds out I’m alive, they’ll kill me,” here, he laughs, once. “Again."

Iori doesn’t find it funny.

“You could have ran,” Iori says. “To Fontaine. If you had claimed asylum, my parents would have protected you.” _I would have protected you._

Riku shakes his head. “Fontaine was still in the middle of their own recovery. The last thing I wanted to do was rekindle a war that had only just ceased. Let alone put you in danger again, Iori. And besides, I...need to stay in Träumerei. There are things I can only do with Tsumugi and Takanashi-sama’s help.”

“What kind of things?”

Riku hesitates, shifting against Iori’s shoulder so he’s looking up at him again. Iori’s breath hitches—even though he had just recounted the details of the Nanase tragedy, the most traumatizing event in his life, Riku’s eyes glow warm. He carries inside him a determination that shines through, even like this; even in the dead of night, after hours and hours of crying his heart out.

“Tenn-nii is strong. Even back then, he was much, much stronger than I ever was. Ever _could_ be, really. I think Hawke knew that. That’s why they came after us,” he confesses, not breaking eye contact with Iori. “But Tenn-nii is smart, too. Clever in ways you’d never expect.”

“...you don’t think he’s dead,” Iori says.

“Tenn-nii was my guardian angel,” Riku says, voice more even than it had been the entire day, even before he had met with the king and princess. “So if I’m still alive, I’m sure he escaped, too. He’s out there, somewhere. I just—I know he is.”

“Do you think you’ll ever find him?” Iori asks.

At this, Riku turns away again. He doesn’t settle back down against Iori’s shoulder, instead leaning back to stare at the angels above them, forever preserved in glass. “Not alone.”

Through the stained glass skylight, the moonlight dances across Riku’s face in different rays of color—a speck of blue on his cheek, red on his forehead, highlighting his hair, and the rest of his face bathed in pale white moonbeams. His expression is purely resolute; there’s not a hint of doubt in his features. Not in his determined brow, not in his innocent, longing eyes. There, in that moment, surrounded by flowers that, Iori now realizes, do not signify funeral, but instead an oath, a promise for reunion, Riku is more beautiful than Iori had ever seen him before.

Iori tangles his hand in Riku’s, and Riku looks at him with a silent question, but Iori raises their intertwined hands and kisses Riku’s knuckles, making an oath of his own.

“You have me, Nanase-san,” Iori says. _Devotion. Lovers._ “You’ll always have me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> up next, more rumors, more secrets, and a rival for iori! thank you everyone for supporting this fic so far, and please stay along for the ride!


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